


Timestretch (Close Your Eyes And Count To (Mach) 5)

by Marvelite5Ever



Category: X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, BAMF Wanda Maximoff, Different Universes, Don't Examine This Too Closely, F/M, Family, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I'm Sorry, M/M, Pietro goes by "Peter", Pietro has daddy problems, Probably not though, Sibling Fluff, Sibling Relationship, Temporal Distortion, Things get weird, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, because it's (mostly) movieverse, dadneto, different realities, i'm sorry this story is probably really confusing idk, maybe it would make more sense if you examined it closely?, mostly - Freeform, nonsensical chronology, nonstandard story format, or do, sometimes, that kind of get fixed, things are mixed up, this story got out of control
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-07-12 15:10:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 68,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7110802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marvelite5Ever/pseuds/Marvelite5Ever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Time stretches, reality alters, and Peter tries to tell Erik that they're related.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Timestretch

**Author's Note:**

> I've watched _X-Men: Apocalypse_ twice now, and I had to write something about it. Specifically, about Pietro and Erik. And Wanda. Even though she doesn't appear to exist in the movie universe.
> 
> This story is alternatively titled: In Which The Author's Brain Does Not Work In A Sensical Way
> 
> Bonus info: Sensical has not yet become an "official" word in the English language, which would be why you can't use it. Nonsense is a word, therefore nonsensical can used to describe something of nonsense. However, sense has different meanings and doesn't have an adjective for something of sense. ("Sensical" is a word on the Urban Dictionary, though!)
> 
> Because that's totally the first thing you wanted to know after reading the alternative title. Obviously.
> 
> And the second thing you want to know after reading that alternative title is, of course, what the author means that her brain doesn't work in a sensical way in this story. Well, basically, this story gets confusing. It stars out chronological and logical, and then things start getting out of wack. Like, realities start getting messed up and tangle and stuff. You'll see when you get to it.

* * *

**Timestretch (Close Your Eyes And Count To (Mach) 5)**

* * *

Pietro “Peter” Maximoff was not well acquainted with fear. 

There was not much for him _to_ fear, because there wasn't anything that could catch him. He wasn't afraid of being caught. He wasn't afraid of the normal things people were usually afraid of. He was never afraid of death. Death couldn't touch him. 

The only thing he was afraid of was letting his family down. And he'd thought he didn't even have that to fear any more, since he already had let his family down by being such a loser, still living in his mom's basement and not doing much of anything while his sisters headed off to college. He was already a disappointment, unable to stop cheating, lying, stealing, getting into trouble that he always got out of but nevertheless got into. He was already such a disappointment that he didn't think he could be more of one. His worst fear had come true, so what more was there to be afraid of?

He hadn't been afraid of Apocalypse. He was just another snail, like the rest of the world. And his face was ugly. So no, Peter hadn't been afraid of kicking the guy around like a hacky-sack or any kind of repercussions of that. 

But when Apocalypse made the ground swallow his foot, Peter realized he had another fear: he was afraid of being trapped and unable to escape. And he felt true, unadulterated panic, for the first time in his long-short life. 

And when Apocalypse broke his leg—in a few different places, to boot—Peter realized he had yet another fear: a fear of being forever crippled and unable to run. Ending up in a wheelchair like that Professor X guy. Fuck, that would be the worst!

He'd always, _always_ been able to run, from everything. It had never occurred to him that there could be a time when he couldn't run. 

Fuck! If he was never able to run again, then he'd probably go insane and kill himself. What was he if he couldn't run? Running was all he was, all he'd ever been. If he didn't have that, he was nothing, and he knew it. 

Not that it would matter, since the ninja girl was going to kill him. And there was, not the fear of death, but the fear he'd always known: the fear of letting his family down even more than he'd ever thought to think was possible. Because if he died, then he'd really failed them in every possible way, hadn't he? His mom. His little sister. His twin. His dad, who didn't even know he was his dad. He'd failed all of them.

He closed his eyes so he wouldn't see it coming.

Except, then it never did. So apparently he got a second chance, after all. 

Well, if he were able to heal from the broken bones and run again.

* * *

“I'm sorry,” Professor X said, after Peter's leg had been set in its cast. “I know how hard it must be for you, to be unable to run.” 

“Yeah, well,” Peter shrugged, trying for blasé, always blasé. “The furry blue doctor dude said that it'll heal fine and I'll be able to run again, and that since I have enhanced healing it will only take about two weeks for the bones to heal, instead of the sixteen weeks it would take a normal person.” Nevermind the fact that, since Peter experienced everything faster, that two weeks would feel like at least six months. 

But, whatever. He'd be able to run again, and that was all that mattered, really. 

“And besides!” Peter said, grinning brightly. “I got to punch Apocalypse in the face and kick him around like a soccer ball! Who _else_ gets to say they got to do that?!”

“Nobody,” Professor X said, smiling slightly.

“Exactly!” Peter said with a smirk. “Evidence that I am the awesomest badass there is!” Fake bravado to cover up the fact that Peter felt like a total failure, having gotten caught and beaten by Apocalypse like that, and now he useless.

But Professor X didn't hear those thoughts, and so he just chuckled indulgently. “Of course,” he said. “And that's why, after you're healed, I'd like to ask if you'd be interested in joining the X-Men.” 

Peter raised a silver eyebrow, feeling his lips curl upwards and his heart beat faster with excitement, fingers tightening on the grips of his crutches. “The X-Men, huh? That thing that Mystique was talking about where most all of the members died?” 

For a moment, Professor X looked like he'd been slapped. “Well—” 

“Tell me more,” Peter grinned.

* * *

“Mystique told me that he's your father,” Storm said, nodding up at where Magneto was hovering in the air, helping Jeanne put the X-Mansion or whatever it was called back together. “Are you going to tell him?” 

Peter looked up at the man, feeling something in his chest tighten. “Maybe,” he said. “Someday.” When Erik wasn't quite so torn up over the recent loss of his wife and daughter. When Peter didn't look—and feel—like a complete and utter failure, hobbling around on crutches with a broken leg. 

Storm nodded as if she understood. Peter doubted she did—she probably thought he was scared of the man or something, which he wasn't; he wasn't afraid of Magnieo's powers—he wasn't even afraid of Magneto's temper. What he was afraid of, he was loathe, and rather depressed, to admit to himself, was a fear of rejection. A fear that Magneto would reject him for being weak, useless, stupid. 

And, okay, maybe he was a little bit afraid of Magneto's homicidal tendencies, if only because he was afraid that Magneto might want him to kill people and that he might feel obliged to do it even if he was just being used for Magneto's cause; or that Magneto, upon hearing about his more powerful, more intelligent, and just generally more awesome-in-every-way twin, that he would want to use her for his cause. And he could never, ever do that to Wanda, his Wanda, his twin, his other, better half who was making a normal life for herself in a way that Peter could never and would never be able to do. 

And she was happy, Peter knew, because he visited her periodically to make sure. All she'd ever wanted was to be normal. That had never been a desire for Peter—nor had it ever been a possibility, what with this silver hair and ADD personality—even despite all the bullying and strange looks he'd had to put up with. 

Running was his _life_ , and he'd never want to live without his speed even despite how annoying it always was to wait for everything else to catch up. As alienating as it was, almost all of the time, he liked being faster than everyone else, being ahead. 

And he didn't think he wanted to catch Erik up to speed, yet.

Still, even if Storm didn't really understand his reasoning, Peter appreciated that she thought she did and therefore didn't ask him questions and try to pry or anything. She was cool like that. 

Looked like it was time to change the subject.

“Soooo,” he said, looking over at her and her white mohawk, which was pretty fucking cool, actually. “You have a white mohawk. And you can fly and shoot lightning bolts at people.”

“Yeah,” she said.

“That's pretty cool,” Peter said. 

“Yeah,” she agreed, smiling slightly. 

“I just run really fast,” Peter said, looking back at the mansion that was putting itself back together with the help of a couple powerful mutants. “Which is way more boring.” 

“I think it's a 'pretty cool' ability, too,” Storm offered. “You got to punch Apocalypse in the face.” 

“Yeah,” Peter agreed, grinning. “I did. You got to shoot lighting bolts at him, though.”

“Yeah,” Storm smiled. “It was fun.” She looked over at him, tilting her head. “Did Professor X ask you to join his X-Men?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you going to?”

“Hell yeah. Are you?”

“Yeah,” she grinned. 

Peter grinned back. “Cool.”

* * *

Peter's leg had healed, and he wasn't completely useless any more, and he was back to being constantly moving and hyper and annoying instead of being stationary and irritable and annoying. 

Every time he passed Erik Lensherr in the halls of the X-Mansion—fuck the school's really long name, that's what he was calling it—he couldn't help but cast his father glances. Should he tell him now? Now? Now? How long should he wait? When would Erik be ready? He'd almost opened his mouth a few times to strike up a conversation with him, and maybe tell him, but he always changed his mind at the last nanosecond and ran off before Erik had even noticed the speedster had been staring at him.

What would happen if he told Erik the truth? Everything would change; he just didn't know how. Would Erik try to recruit him to his terrorist cause? Would he butt into his life and find out about Wanda? Would he be angry? Happy? Would he even believe him? 

Peter had a good thing going with the X-Men, he could feel it. And he just… didn't want to ruin that. As much as he wanted a dad, he wasn't sure he was ready for the complications it would bring to his life. 

And he wasn't sure Erik was ready, either. Suddenly hearing that you fathered a couple mutants who were now twenty-seven and you hadn't been there for their entire lives and one of them had actually broken you out of the Pentagon and you'd never even realized it was your son could not be an easy thing to wrap your mind around. Especially after having recently watched your wife and daughter get killed. Erik was a snail, like the rest of the world, which meant he probably needed quite a bit of time to deal with that emotional baggage, before taking on any new emotional baggage. 

Hell, it had taken Peter like an entire _week_ to come to terms with the fact that Magneto was his father, and he was a speedster, so that was like for-fucking-ever. He'd probably spent at least a day just glancing at himself in the mirror and wondering how he'd never noticed that he had Erik's nose and harsh jawline. He wondered how he'd never noticed that Erik and Wanda had the same eyebrows, the same frown. How had he never noticed? 

How had Erik never noticed, when he looked at Peter, the reflections of his own face? 

Perhaps, Peter thought, it was because their dispositions were so different. Maybe Erik would have noticed if he'd seen Wanda; she had the same temper, the same emo attitude, the same seriousness and determination, in a way that Peter just _didn't_.

Peter was casual, cheeky, cheerful, flighty, unmotivated. They were so different, and the way Erik's gaze only ever latched onto him with annoyance made him bite his tongue and run away before he could ever make it to the first syllable of “You're kind of my father, did you know that?” 

So when Erik left, Peter stood there and watched him walk away.

“Forget everything you thought you knew,” Mystique said, snapping his attention away from his father. Damn, she was a badass, and even though he was kind of an idiot even he knew that not paying close attention to everything she said to you was a very, very bad idea. (Plus, she was kinda hot.) 

“Forget everything you learned in school,” she continued, and Peter was already fighting the urge to grin. He had to looks serious about this, damnit! But _fuck_ , she was speaking _his_ language. He'd never done very well at school. It had never been his thing, not like it had been Wanda's. 

“Forget what your parents taught you,” she said, and he didn't think that would be too hard. His mother had tried her best, he knew she had, but he was vexing and troublesome and she couldn't stop him from doing anything, could never change his mind anything, and had eventually given up.

“You're not kids anymore. You're not students.” She paused for dramatic effect, and ohhh, the suspense was killing him! Speedster here, helloooo? Hurry it up! 

She looked at them, eyes yellow and intense. “You're X-Men.”

The words sent thrills down Peter's spine, more thrills joining them when the walls opened up and the Sentinels came out. 

_This,_ Peter thought, as he raced around the room destroying the robots with the other mutans, _is what I was born for._

At the end of the session, when the other X-Men were panting, tired and exhausted, Peter could not stop laughing, because nothing had ever felt so _right_ , before. He'd been aimless his entire life, never enough to hold his attention, keep him entertained, interested, motivated, nothing to keep him from getting bored aside from stealing.

But this? The fighting? This was the thrill he'd always gotten from stealing, only better. He was never, ever, ever giving this X-Men gig up, he decided, laughing until tears were streaking down his face.

“Hey!” Scott barked, glaring down at him with his rosequartz visor. “What's wrong with you?” 

“Nothing!” Peter gasped out between hysterics. “Everything!” 

“Jeanne?” Scott asked, looking over at the red-haired telepath. “What's wrong with him?”

“I… can't tell,” Jeanne said, shaking her head, looking slightly miffed. 

“I thought you said you knew how everyone feels,” Scott accused.

“Everyone _except_ him,” Jeanne said, exasperated. “His thoughts are too fast, I can't make sense of them.”

Scott pinched the bridge of his nose. “Great, just great. Craziest mutant on this team, and not even the telepath can tell what he's thinking. I feel great about this.” 

“Where have you guys been all my life?!” Peter asked, and kept laughing.

* * *

Peter was sitting on Wanda's bed as she tried on different dresses, asking him what he thought about each, which one she should wear on her date. 

Her dark auburn hair flowed down her back, slightly shorter than usual since she'd curled it, and her green eyes were lined with eyeliner, eyelashes darkened with mascara, pursed lips coated in scarlet lipstick. 

She didn't need any of it. 

“Wanda,” Peter said, smirking at her. “Sis, you look amazing in _everything_. You could go in sweatpants and a huge hoodie and _still_ be the most attractive girl this guy has ever seen.” 

“Stop it, Pie!” she laughed, using his nickname from their childhood as she grabbed a pillow from the bed and hit him over the head with it. “That's not helping me pick out an outfit!”

He just grinned, letting her hit him with the pillow even though they both knew he could have easily dodged it.“Seriously, stop fussing so much, sis,” he said, stealing the pillow from her and sitting on it. “If he doesn't like you because you wore the 'wrong' outfit then he's not good enough for you, and if he breaks your heart like that then I will beat him up for you. Or leave him duct taped to his ceiling. Or steal his car and drive it into the Rhine.” 

“Pie!” she said, rolling her eyes. “The Rhine is a river in the Alps! You can't drive to the Alps!”

“Why not?” Peter asked innocently, blinking his dark eyes. 

“Because the Alps are in Europe!”

“I could drive to Europe,” Peter said.

“No, you couldn't, Pete!” she said, huffing, as she slipped out of yet another dress so she was just standing there in a bra and underwear, uncaring if her brother saw. They were siblings, after all, and they shared a room till they were fifteen and Peter was 'deported' to the basement since his kleptomania had gotten out of control. They'd seen each other naked plenty of times. “You can't drive across an ocean!”

“I can run across an ocean,” Peter pointed out, sighing in exasperation as she pulled on yet another dress. 

“That's different!” she said. “You can run faster than cars can drive.” She twirled, then, the skirt of the scarlet dress flowing out and rippling in the air. “How does this one look?” 

“Beautiful,” Peter said, and he meant it, just as he'd meant it when he'd told her that all the other dresses were beautiful, too. “Okay, but what if I carried the car across the ocean?” 

Wanda scoffed at him as she took the dress off and tossed it onto the floor with the others she'd already tried on. “You can' carry a car across the ocean!”

“Why not?” Peter protested. 

“You're not that strong!”

“Says who?” he challenged. 

Wanda just rolled her eyes at him again. “What about this one?” she asked, spinning around in a black v-neck dress that came to just above her knees. “With a red jacket and my tall black boots, the ones that go above the knees.” 

“Yes, Wanda, _do that one,_ ” Peter said, sighing in exasperation.

Wanda snickered, taking the second pillow and hitting him over the head with it, before he grabbed that one and sat on it as well. “What? You didn't enjoy the fashion show?” 

“I always enjoy your fashion shows,” Peter said. “Especially when they involve silly hats.” 

She threw a hex at him, which, when he leapt out of the way with a yelp, unmade her bed and sent the pillows flying. 

“Dude!” Peter said, crouching down behind her desk. “Chill out! What was that for?” 

Wanda just smiled as she found her red fake-leather jacket and slipped it on over the black dress. “For being you.” 

“Not fair!” 

Finding her long black boots, Wanda came and sat down next to him to pull them on, glancing at him every now and then, scrutinizing. 

“What?!” he demanded. “Do I have something on my face?!” He poked at one of his cheeks, as if that would do anything.

“No,” she said, shaking her head and smiling, locks of brown hair falling into her face. She glanced at him again, thoughtfully. “You just seem… happy. For once.”

“Pfft!” Peter snorted, waving a hand. “I'm always happy!”

“You're not,” Wanda said. “I know you better than that. You hadn't been happy since I left. But you're happy now.” 

It was no use trying to lie to Wanda. She always saw through him. 

He shrugged. “I joined the X-Men.” Reaching out, he started playing with the blue laces on one of his silver running shoes. “I like it. It feels right, y'know? Like I finally found my calling.” 

Leaning over, Wanda kissed his cheek, smiling as she pulled back. “I'm glad,” she said. 

“You should come visit me in Westchester, sometime,” Peter said, dark eyes hopeful. “I think you'd like it.” 

“Maybe after I finish this acting job,” she said, smiling reassuringly. “I'd like to visit you.” 

He nodded. “When does filming for the movie end?” 

“Couple months,” she said. 

“The kids at the mansion love your movies,” Peter said, smiling wryly, still playing with his shoelace. “I don't even know how to tell them that the actor they all love so much is my twin sister, so I haven't, yet. Also, figured it would make a fun surprise. They'd totally freak if you dropped by.” 

“Well, I couldn't disappoint my fans, now could I?” Wanda smiled at him, finishing zipping up the second boot. She spread her legs out in front of her, wiggling her toes inside the black artificial leather. “So. Have you told Magneto that he's our father yet?” 

He never had been able to keep any secrets from Wanda.

“Haven't even told him that he's my father,” Peter said, looking down and chewing on his lip, silver hair falling into his face. “And he doesn't even know you exist. I just… don't know how…” 

Wanda took his hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “I understand,” she said. 

Peter's lips twitched. “I know you do. You always do. More than any mindreader ever could, even. I give them all headaches and/or bloody noses.” 

“That's what you give _everyone_ except for me,” Wanda teased, and Peter laughed. “I'm the only one who can put up with you without wanting to either kill myself or strangle you.” 

“Good thing, because you're probably the only person who could actually catch me to strangle me,” Peter grinned. 

“True,” Wanda said, smiling again. She still held his hand. “And, Pie, I'm sure that the perfect opportunity will arise for you to let Magneto know. You'll know it when it happens, I'm sure of it. Just be patient, okay? The time will come.”

“Yeah, patience,” Pietro scoffed. “Definitely my strongsuit.” 

“Here, I'll let you borrow some of mine,” Wanda said, pulling him into a tight hug. “Patience transference!” 

“Gah! Get off me, you hag!” Peter said, flailing and trying to pull away, rather half-heartedly, before relaxing against her, head tucked under her chin. “I love you, sis.” 

Wanda smiled and ran her fingers through his silver hair that had caused him so much bullying and vitriol throughout his life. “Love you too, bro.” She poked him in the ribs. “And don't wait so long before visiting next time!” 

Quicksilver laughed and shoved her back. “Well maybe I would if you weren't so—”

* * *

“This is the real thing, guys,” Mystique said, as they ducked behind the corner of a building, glancing out into the street where the Sentinels were chasing a mutant who could create ice. “This isn't the Danger Room anymore. So I need you to—Quicksilver!” 

Quicksilver had disappeared, but then he was back, the icy kid under one arm and a box of kittens in the other. 

Mystique leveled her gaze him.

“What?” Quicksilver asked, setting the boy on his feet and then pressing the box of kittens into the kid's hands. “The boy was about to get blasted, and the kittens were going to get smashed by falling building!” 

Mystique sighed, but her blue lips twitched. “So much like your father,” she muttered, before saying louder, “Alright, X-Men! Let's take these Sentinels down!” 

“We're the X-Men,” Peter told the ice boy, as the other X-Men ran out to engage the huge robots. “You're safe now. My name's Peter, by the way.” 

“B-Bobby,” the boy said, looking up at him with wide eyes. “How did you—”

“I'm really fast,” Peter grinned. He nodded at the box of kittens. “Hold onto them and keep them safe, okay? We're going to take the stupid robots down, and then we'll be back for you, and you can come to our awesome school for weird kids like you and me. Okay?” 

Bobby had barely started nodding before Quicksilver was joining the other X-Men in taking the robots down. 

And seriously, he thought, as he ran around a robot's legs, wrapping it in silver plastic, duct tape was the _best._

But, he thought, as he ran onto a robot's shoulder and, jamming a piece of metal into a panel and wrenching it off, reaching in and pulling out the wires, crowbars were pretty cool, too.

* * *

“Hey Mystique!” Peter grinned as he sped into the kitchen, leaning against the counter. “What'cha doin'?” 

“What does it look like I'm doing?” she asked, stirring the ingredients into the bowl. 

“Making blueberry banana pancakes?” Peter said, having glanced into the bowl and then retreated back to where he'd been standing. 

“How observant,” Mystique said wryly. 

“Woot!” Peter cried, throwing his fists into the air and prancing around the kitchen. “I love blueberry banana pancakes! You're the best, Mystique!” 

“Shut up,” Mystique said, lips twitching as she turned to pour the pancake mix into the pan, the batter hissing as it hit the hot surface. “Who said I was sharing any with you?” 

“How could you not share any with me?” Peter asked, suddenly at her elbow, looking at her with wide, dark eyes, and a wide, bright smile. “I'm adorable!” 

“You're ridiculous and annoying, maybe,” Mystique snorted. 

“But you looooo-oooove me,” Peter sing-songed, giving a shit-eating grin. 

“No such thing.”

“Oh, c'mon, Mysty!” Peter said. “I'm your favorite godchild, since you haven't met my twin yet!”

“Godchild?” Mystique said flatly, raising an orange eyebrow. She flipped the pancake. 

“Yeah!” Peter grinned. “If Erik knew that he was my dad, he'd totally make you my godmother!” 

Mystique snorted, rolling staring at him in disbelief. “Yeah, sure,” she said, voice dripping sarcasm. 

“Which I guess kind of makes Kurt my bro,” Peter hummed, hand on his chin.

Mystique froze. 

Peter raised a silver eyebrow at her. “What, you didn't think I could tell that he's your son? I'm not going to tell anyone, but it's pretty obvious when you think about it.” 

“I don't know where you got that idea,” Mystique said stiffly, flipping the pancake onto a plate and pouring on more batter. “But if you don't shut up now, you're not going to be getting any pancakes.” 

Peter zipped his lips closed, though he was still smirking.

There was a _BAMF!_ and the stench of sulfur, and the Kurt was standing there, orange eyes latching onto the pancakes, blue lips pulling back in a grin to reveal sharp teeth. “Are you making blueberry _banane_ pancakes?” he asked, excited. 

Mystique tensed. 

“Tag!” Peter cried, slapping the pointy-eared mutant on the shoulder. “You're it, dude!” and then he sped off. 

“Hey!” Kurt protested. “That's not fair, I vasn't ready!” and then there was a _BAMF!_ and the stench of sulfur again, and Mystique looked out the window to see the two mutants zipping and teleporting around, tagging each other and disturbing the other students who were hanging out on the lawn. 

Mystique sighed, but she smiled, slightly, as she watched them. 

_PFAZZZZZZZZZZT!_ a beam of red shot across the grounds as Scott tried to zap them, and Kurt grabbed Peter and bamfed them out of the way.  
_PFAZZZZZZZZZZT!_ Scott tried to hit them again, and it was Peter's turn to grab Kurt and move them both out of the way, the two of them shrieking and laughing as Scott yelled at them for being immature idiots. 

“Why don't you finish your homework?!” Scott shouted. 

“I already did!” Peter said. 

“Me too!” Kurt added.

“It's not our fault you're slow!” 

_PFAZZZZZZZZZZT!_

Mystique was laughing so hard that she almost spilled the pancake batter.

* * *

“Let's make a deal,” Peter said.

“What's that?” Mystique asked, raising an eyebrow.

“When I tell Erik he's my father, you have to tell Kurt that he's your son.” 

Mystique was silent. 

“I think that's fair, don't you?” Peter pressed. 

“And if I tell Kurt he's my son before that?” Mystique asked, quietly.

“Then I have to find Erik and tell him he's my father,” Peter said. “It goes both ways!” 

“Alright,” Mystique said, straightening and staring him in the eyes. “It's a deal.” 

They shook hands.

They both knew that neither of them would be telling their family member the truth any time soon.

* * *

The X-Men were hiding in the trees, looking at the mutant testing facility they were about to break into.

 _Let's blow this popsicle stand_ , Quicksilver thought gleefully, pulling his goggles down over his eyes. 

“Storm, you bring up a slow fog, don't make them too nervous, but enough to give us some cover,” Cyclops said. “Quicksilver, you remove the perimeter gaurds's guns. Jean—”

“What, that's it?” Quicksilver asked, affronted, glaring at their field leader. “You don't want me to punch their lights out while I'm at it? Because I can do that, you know.” 

“Quicksilver—” Cyclops started, frowning.

“You always have me just removing guns and saving people!” Quicksilver hissed. “I can do so much more than that! Just because what I'm technically best at is running doesn't mean that I can't fight!” 

“Quicksilver, just follow the pl—” Cyclops started, but Quicksilver was already gone. “Quicksilver!” 

And then there was a pile of guns next to them, a pile of unconscious guards, and a sneering Quicksilver leaning against a tree. 

“Alright, X-People,” Quicksilver said, gesturing at the facility. “The rest is all yours.” 

“Quicksilver, we need you to save the mutants that have been tested on—” Cyclops started, and he was probably glaring, not that anybody could tell with that dorky visor on his face. Though if it were up to him, he'd probably be zapping Quicksilver with his laser eyes by now. 

“The guards are all taken out,” Quicksilver said dourly. “You guys shouldn't have any trouble. But, y'know, call me if you need me or anything.” He was twirling a gun around his fingers, the ammunition emptied on the ground. 

“We shouldn't fight amongst ourselves,” Jeanne said. 

“Quicksilver,” Cyclops said, teeth gritted. “You need to follow my orders, or this isn't going to work!” 

An alarm started going off, and a door in the facility opened up, Sentinels streaming out.

“See?!” Cyclops yelled, gesturing at the robots rushing towards them. “This is what happens when you don't follow the plan!” 

“Your plan was shit plan!” Quicksilver yelled, suddenly standing in front of Cyclops, fists clenched. “Why are we taking orders from a sixteen-year-old _kid?!_ Mystique's a better field leader than you could ever be!” 

“I'm seventeen!” Cyclops yelled. “And Mystique was just training us, and then she left! She's not here any more! And besides, what about you?! You're, what, almost thirty now? And look at you, acting like a child!” 

“I'm twenty-seven, you little fuck!” Quicksilver growled. “And—”

“GUYS!” Jeanne yelled, as she, Storm, Kurt, and the other X-Men started taking on the robots. “STOP FIGHTING EACH OTHER AND HELP!” 

“Like you couldn't destroy all these robots yourself without even trying!” Quicksilver yelled back at her. “I'm done with this! I'm done listening to a teenage prick!” 

He punched Cyclops in the nose.

And then he blew up the entire government facility, because he'd recently figured out he could cause kinetic explosions, and because the facility wasn't actually real and there were no actual mutants in there. 

And then he was running to the wall of the Danger Room—not that anyone else could even find the walls in the hardlight hologram, which would turn them around in circles so they'd never reach the walls, but he could always tell which way was which due to the electromagnetic field of the Earth, kinda like a homing pigeon—and leaned against the wall, arm around his knees. 

He'd vibrate through the walls—which was another cool thing he'd recently figured out that he could do, because he was awesome—but the Danger Room walls wouldn't allow that, because they were stupid, and insisted on trapping them all inside, because it wasn't a battle simulation if they could escape whenever they wanted, was it? Except that he could always escape from whatever situation he wanted to, he just usually didn't want to because staying and fighting was so much more fun.

Not when that bastard Scott was leading, though. _Mystique _let them all use their gifts to their fullest, and employ their own discretion in making decisions, but Scott for some reason insisted on holding them all—and especially Quicksilver—back, for some reason, and trying to control everyone and everything. It was like the Millennium Challenge of 2002; Mystique was General Paul K. Van Riper, and Scott was the leader of the American team who thought that rigid control was effective in war, when it wasn't. War was a fog, or whatever.__

And after everything Quicksilver had done, did Scott and the other X-Men—aside from Mystique, of course, because she was awesome—think running was _all that he was good for?!_

 _STOP,_ came the Professor's voice through all their heads, and then the Danger Room was shutting down, turning back into a regular room. 

When the doors started opening, Quicksilver was squeezing through the gap before anyone else had even registered what was happening. 

_Stay where you are, Peter,_ the Prof said in his head when he was halfway down the hallway. _I need to talk to you._

Peter scoffed, but sat down against the wall, knees drawn up to his chest, arms resting straight on his knees, hands limp. 

It took _forever_ for the Prof to roll over to him from where he'd been in the observation room watching them fight. Geez, couldn't the guy go any faster? Peter's butt was starting to get sore, here. 

“Peter,” the Prof sighed, when he finally showed up. 

“Took you long enough,” Peter muttered, not looking up. 

“You broke Scott's nose,” the Prof said.

“Didn't think I hit him that hard,” Peter muttered, before saying louder, “He deserved it. He sucks. I miss Mystique.” 

The Prof sighed again. “Peter, you're twenty-seven. Don't you think you're a little old to be acting like a child?” 

“Exactly!” Peter yelled, jumping to his feet. “I'm twenty-fucking-seven! Don't you think that's a little old to be _treated_ like a kid?! He treats me like a kid, and I'm going to act like one! None of us X-Men are kids!”

“He's new at this,” the Prof said evenly. “Being leader of a team is a large responsibility. He doesn't want to be responsible for any of you getting injured.” 

“If he can't take responsibility for any mistakes he might make, then he's not fit to be a leader!” Peter shouted. “He needs to fucking _trust us!_ We can't work as a team if he doesn't trust us to make adept split-second decisions and use our powers as we deem ourselves able!” 

“Peter, have patience—” the Prof started.

“Patience?!” Peter shrieked. _“Patience?! You try living your life at the speed I do and having patience! I've been plenty patient! Do you even know what it's like to spend your entire life feeling like a total, useless loser, to finally have something good where you've found what you're good at but then still be treated like a useless loser?! I've been told that I'm not good and can't do anything right my entire life and you expect me to be 'patient' and let that one-eyed loser treat me like I'm no good and can't do anything right?! Fighting is what I was fucking MADE for, I can feel it!”_

“Peter,” the Prof said, as the speedster stood there panting, fists clenched, dark eyes livid. “I can tell that you're upset, but I have no idea what you just said. You were speaking too fast.” 

Peter was about to spit out a Fuck you, when he happened to look behind the Prof and see Erik Lensherr standing there, watching him. 

Peter froze, staring at him. 

“You deal with the other students, Charles,” Erik said, eyes not leaving Peter's. “I'll deal with Peter.” 

The Prof looked back at his 'old friend,' and they seemed to share a psychic conversation, before the Prof nodded and wheeled off towards the Danger Room. 

And then it was just Quicksilver and Magneto.

Peter wanted to spit out, _“What do you want, dad?!”_ but thought better of it and grit his mouth shut. 

A split second later and he was sitting on the floor against the wall a few feet away, legs pulled up to his chest. 

Erik walked over and crouched next to him. “Peter.”

“What are you doing here, Mags?' Peter muttered.

“Mags?” Erik asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Short for Magneto,” Peter grumbled out. “You know, like Mystique is Mysty, the Professor is Prof, Cyclops is Cyke, Nightcrawler is Crawly, Beast is Beastie—although I guess technically that's longer, but whatever—Jubilee is Juby, Iceman is Icester, Shadowcat is Kitty—which is her actual name anyway, but also whatever—Storm is 'Ro—which is actually short for Ororo, because that's her real name, and 'Storm' doesn't shorten well, and 'Stormy' is just weird—and Rogue is Sugah, because she started calling me Sugah first so I'm calling her that back, and—”

“Alright, I get it,” Erik said, cutting him off. 

_I really want to call you Dadneto, though,_ Peter didn't say. 

Erik put a hand on the speedster's shoulder, and Peter flinched. 

“Peter,” Erik said.

 _Pietro,_ Peter wanted to say. _My real name is Pietro. Pietro Mateo Maximoff. My sister is Wanda Django Maximoff, and our mom is Magda Eisenhardt Maximoff. Does any of that sound familiar?_

 _You're kind of my dad,_ Peter wanted to say. 

“You're a very powerful mutant, Quicksilver,” Erik said, and Peter felt his heart leap into his throat. He looked up at Erik with wide, surprised eyes, and Erik gave him a small smile. “I know what what that feels like, to be more powerful than anyone knows, and to be held back by peoples' limited expectations.” 

He squeezed Peter's shoulder. “I wish I had some better advice to give you. I'm not telling you to listen to the kid with the visor—” Peter probably shouldn't have felt so pleased that Erik remembered his name but didn't remember Scott's “—but just because you have the power to do something, like blow up an entire facility, doesn't mean that you should.”

“Like just because you can lift up an entire baseball stadium and kill the President doesn't mean you should do that,” Peter muttered, lips twitching. _And just because my sister probably has the power to alter the entirety of reality doesn't mean that she should do that._

“...Yes,” Erik said. “Exactly.” 

“How do you deal with that?” Peter asked, breath choking, burying his face in his knees. His voice was muffled. “How do you deal with knowing that you could kill everyone here before they had time to so much as blink, but they still treat you like you're incapable of doing anything but run away? At least you and Jeannie get people's _fear_ and _respect._ Am I just that much of a _joke_ that no one can take me seriously?” 

Erik's hand tightened reassuringly around his shoulder. “It's a good idea to keep some things up your sleeve. You don't need everyone to know how dangerous you are. It's better if they don't. You don't want to be feared by everyone if you don't have to be.” 

“And you have to be?”

“I don't have a choice. I thought I never did.”

Pietro blinked in surprise as Erik sat down next to him, leaning his head back against the wall. “Fear invites violence. Humans' fear of me killed my wife and daughter.”

Peter looked at him. Something clicked. “The Prof told you, didn't he?” 

“Told me what?” Erik said, straight-faced, but there might have been amusement in his blue eyes. 

“That I'm your son,” Pietro said. 

Erik smiled slightly. “I assure you, he didn't mean to. It was quite an accident that he let it slip when he was grumbling about how much you remind him of me and how apparently the apple doesn't fall that far from the tree.” 

Peter snorted, letting his own head fall back against the wall. “Is that why you left, and didn't come back for so long?” 

“Suddenly realizing you're a father of a twenty-seven-year-old who's a mutant and who you never recognized as your own despite having ample opportunity to is not the easiest thing to deal with,” Erik said softly.

“Yeah,” Peter said, “I didn't think it would be. That's part of why, after your wife and daughter died, I didn't tell you… I didn't think...” 

“It's okay,” Erik said. “I've had time to come to terms with it now.” 

Peter laughed, suddenly. “Geez, I should thank the Prof for letting it slip. I don't know if I ever would have gathered the courage to tell you myself. I had this idea in my head that it would be the reverse of that 'Luke, I am your father' seen in Star Wars, all dramatic and shit, with one us—probably me—no, wait, totally you—bleeding out from an amputated limb.” 

Erik chuckled softly beside him. “I would hope it wouldn't have been that bad.” 

“This is kinda much more anticlimatic than anything I'd been expecting,” Peter said. “This is… weird.”

Erik hummed. “Yes, I suppose it is.” 

“Did… did the Prof let it slip that...” Peter started, biting his lip.

Erik raised an eyebrow. “Did Charles let what slip?”

“That I...” 

“That you like guys?”

“No!” Peter shouted, turning to star at Erik with wide eyes, only to find Erik laughing. “And like you'd have a problem with that, what with you and Charles eye-fucking each other all the time!” 

“Eye-fucking? _Really?_ ” Erik asked, snorting slightly. “And I never said there's anything wrong with being gay, if you actually are.”

Peter looked down. “I'm not gay. Actually, I'm asexual. There's something about the speedster physiology, I guess, but I've just never been… interested, in that kind of thing. With girls or boys.” 

“Okay,” Erik said, looking at him thoughtfully. “But that's not what you were going to tell me, was it.”

“No, it wasn't,” Peter said, sighing. “I was going to ask if the Prof let it slip that I have a twin sister.” 

Erik's blue eyes widened. “You what?'

Peter fell back against the wall in a peal of snickers. “I guess that's a No, then.”

“You have a twin sister?” Erik asked, sounding urgent, eyes desperate.

“Yeah,” Peter said, smiling slightly as he looked down at his hands. “Her name is Wanda. She's the best. Her mutation isn't an obvious one, and she's always been really smart, so she went to college. Now she's an actor.” 

Erik looked like he'd been slapped, and Peter snickered at him. “How'd you like to meet her?” 

Erik still looked stunned, but he managed to pull himself together and say, “Yes, I'd like that very much.”

“Alright!” Peter said, jumping to his feet and grinning. “Close your eyes and count to five!”

And he was gone.

Erik, smiling slightly, started counting. “One—”

* * *

“Peter, have patience—” the Prof started.

“Patience?!” Peter shrieked. _“Patience?! You try living your life at the speed I do and having patience! I've been plenty patient! Do you even know what it's like to spend your entire life feeling like a total, useless loser, to finally have something good where you've found what you're good at but then still be treated like a useless loser?! I've been told that I'm not good and can't do anything right my entire life and you expect me to be 'patient' and let that one-eyed loser treat me like I'm no good and can't do anything right?! Fighting is what I was fucking MADE for, I can feel it!”_

“Peter,” the Prof said, as the speedster stood there panting, fists clenched, dark eyes livid. “I can tell that you're upset, but I have no idea what you just said. You were speaking too fast.” 

Peter was about to spit out a _Fuck you,_ but instead he ran away. 

He didn't know how he ended up at the top of the International Commerce Centre in Hong Kong, or how Erik found him there, but both things happened, and Peter must have been ranting aloud to himself, because Erik seemed to know exactly what had happened. 

“You're a very powerful mutant, Quicksilver,” Erik said, and Peter felt his heart leap into his throat. He looked up at Erik with wide, surprised eyes, and Erik gave him a small smile. “I know what what that feels like, to be more powerful than anyone knows, and to be held back by peoples' limited expectations.” 

Erik squeezed his shoulder. “If you ever get tired of it at Xavier's school...” he reached into his jacket, pulling out a card and handing it to the speedster. “That's my number. You are always free to join my Brotherhood. We could use a powerful mutant like you, and we'd treat you with the respect you deserve.” 

Erik stood up, looking down at him. “Oh, and Mystique misses you. I'm sure she'd be happy to have you on our side.” 

And then he walked away, and Peter wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. 

After thirty seconds of doing both, he slipped the card with Erik's number into his wallet and then ran around the world as many times as he could in a normal person's second. 

It was 3,367 times. He counted.

“Take that, suckers,” Peter gasped as he collapsed on the grass outside the X-Mansion, trembling with exhaustion, staying conscious just long enough to do the math and then say, “Running at Mach 112,524, fastest thing EVER.” 

Ororo yelling his name was the last thing he heard before he passed out.

* * *

Erik could feel all the metal in the Earth. All of it. It was overwhelming, thrilling. Intoxicating. It would be so easy to destroy the world, with all that metal in his command. 

“You think you've lost everything,” Mystique had told him. “But you haven't! You still have me. You still have Charles. You have more family than you know.”

“I'm going to fight for the family I have left,” she'd said. 

“I'm here for my family too,” said that boy with the silver hair. The one who'd broken him out of the Pentagon. 

That boy was screaming now, his leg broken, and Erik thought that it was a shame; the boy's legs must have been everything to him. He was useless now. 

The boy was screaming, now, and Erik wondered why he was suddenly reminded of Nina. Screaming for him. 

And suddenly Mystique was there, and she was yelling at him. 

“You have to save him!” she shouted, gesturing at the boy, the sword about to swing into his bared throat. 

“And why do I have to do that?” Erik said.

“Because he's your _son,_ you idiot! _That's your son down there, about to get killed!” ___

There was a heavy sinking in Erik's stomach. Could it be…?

The sword was swinging toward the boy's throat, but the sword was metal, and metal was under Erik's control. 

The boy would not die.

* * *

Peter was running around the track at the X-Mansion, jogging at a boring snail speed as he encouraged the younger kids on, when suddenly he was falling to his knees on the side of the track and vomiting into the grass.

“Peter!” Bobby shouted, running over to him, placing a cold hand on his Peter's forehead. “Peter, are you okay?!” 

“Yeah, I'm okay, kid,” Peter said, sitting up and offering a small grin, before doubling over and retching again. 

“Peter! You need a doctor! I'll go get Hank!” 

Bobby stood up and was about to ice-slide off, but Peter grabbed his wrist. 

“No, don't,” Peter said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I'm fine, I promise. Wanda's just mad again.” 

“What?” Bobby said, looking confused. 

“Wanda,” Peter said slowly. “My twin sister. We have a… psychic connection, of sorts, kinda, although it's more of a sensing emotions thing rather than reading thoughts. But whenever she gets mad, I get sick.” 

Bobby blinked his light brown eyes. “So, when you get mad, does she get sick?” 

“No,” Peter said, grinning wryly. “When I get mad, she gets more mad.” 

“That doesn't sound very fair,” Bobby noted, brows furrowing.

“Yeah, but when I get hurt?” Peter said, grin sharpening. “She gets _apoplectic._ ” He blurred and was gone, reappearing with a plastic water bottle, taking a swig and swishing it in his mouth before spitting it out into the grass to rid his mouth of the stomach acid taste. He was still grinning, though. “Practically _apocalyptic.”_

* * *

_“WHERE IS MY BROTHER?!”_ Wanda was levitating above the X-Mansion where she'd torn the roof off, scarlet energy swirling around her, whipping her hair and skirt, glowing in her eyes. _“WHERE IS HE?!”_

“You must be Wanda,” Professor X said, wheeling towards her. 

_“You have till the count of five,”_ Wanda said furiously, fists clenched, scarlet energy growing. _“Where. Is. My. Brother?!”_

“He was kidnapped on the X-Men's last mission,” Professor X said calmly. “We're working on looking for him as we speak.” 

Wanda swooped down, suddenly Professor X was gasping for air as he was lifted from his wheelchair by her hand around his throat. 

“Professor!” Scott cried, taking off his glasses to blast Wanda with his eyes, only for the beams to refract off the energy around her, scattering through the roofless room and causing all the X-Men and students to throw themselves to the floor so as not to get hit. 

Wanda's eyes were scorching scarlet, her grip around the Professor's throat tightening. _“Tell. Me. Everything.”_

 _I will as soon as you put me down,_ Charles thought desperately at her, hoping she'd hear through all the interference her chaos energy was causing. 

He was dropped roughly back to his wheelchair. 

Eyes flashing, Wanda started counting. _“One—”_

* * *

“What happened to you?!” Ororo demanded as soon as he woke up, glaring down at him. “You disappeared for a second, and then collapsed passed out on the lawn!” 

Peter groaned, pushing himself up into a sitting position. There was a tugging pain at his arm, and he turned his head to see that he was attached to an IV. Looking around, he saw that he was in a bed in the medical bay, Ororo sitting in the chair next to him and staring at him intently. 

“Well?!” she demanded. 

Peter grinned sheepishly, running his other arm through his hair. “Uh,” he said, “I might run at my top speed around the world a few thousands times. Nothing to worry about, okay?” 

Ororo slapped him. “How dare you say something like that!” she yelled, eyes glowing white. 

Rain started pounding against the windows.

“You do crazy things like that, and of course we're going to worry!” she shouted. 

“...Sorry?” Peter said weakly, simpering. “I didn't mean to? I didn't know you cared?” 

Ororo slapped him again. “How dare you!” 

“I'm sorry!” Peter cried, holding his arms up in front of his face. “I won't do it again!” 

“Oh, good, you're awake,” Hank said as he came in, walking over. 

“Don't slap me!” Peter cried, scrambling away and falling off the bed, pulling out his IV roughly, causing it to bleed. 

Hank had to force the speedster back into the bed and sit on him to hold him down while he bandaged his arm. Peter struggled against him until he fell asleep in exhaustion. 

Getting off the sleeping speedster, Hank turned to narrow his eyes at Ororo. “Did you really think it was a good idea to slap him right after he woke up after running over 86 million miles because he was emotionally compromised and apparently didn't know any other way to deal with it?” 

Ororo shrugged. 

After Hank cleared Peter from the med bay the next day, she slapped him again. 

(He let her.)

* * *

“All you're good at is running!” Scott yelled at him. “What good is that?!” 

In a nanosecond there was a knife pressed up against Scott's throat.

“I dare you to say that again,” Peter said, yawning.

* * *

“Should we give him general anesthesia?” doctor number one asked.

“No, there's no point,” said doctor number two, picking up a scalpel. “He burns through it too fast.”

Peter watched the scalpel inch towards his skin in slow motion.

 _Well, fuck,_ he thought. _This is going to hurt._

* * *

Wanda was screaming before she left. Screaming at Peter. Screaming at their mom. 

The twins had just turned eighteen a month ago. They'd had their powers for three years, but had been exhibiting personality symptoms related to their powers for many years previous. 

Wanda's volatile moods, explosive tantrums, tendency to throw things. Peter's ADHD and kleptomania and obsession with running. 

(The doctors had wanted to give Peter medication to calm him down, but Wanda had screamed at them and wouldn't let them. “You can't drug Peter! I won't let you!” she'd screamed, after Peter had tried to run away and hide.)

Peter and Wanda had always had each other's backs. Always.

(“I don't want to go!” Wanda shouted, tears streaming down her face. “You can't make me!” And Peter would pick her up and run her to the next state over, where they could hang out at a park until she calmed down.)

Not anymore, though, it seemed. 

She was screaming at him for being too overprotective of her, for being too needy and attention-seeking, for taking their mom's side, for lying to her. 

Wanda nearly blew the door off its hinges as she left, and nearly splintered it when she slammed it. It took Peter precious seconds just to jiggle it open again. 

He raced after Wanda's car, pounding on the windows, begging her to stop, please, please don't go, Wanda, please! 

She blasted him with her power and left, telling him that if he tried to follow her or find her she'd kill him. 

Peter lay facedown on the asphalt of the street and sobbed till he was almost run over by a car.

* * *

“Fuck, we cut his artery! He's bleeding out!” 

“Stop the bleeding, if you can. We still have use for him.”

“He's bleeding out too There isn't anything we can do!” 

“Well, at least we can perform a proper autopsy once he's dead. I've been itching to take a good look at his heart.” 

_I'm sorry, Wanda…_

* * *

Peter lay on top of the covers on his bed, still fully clothed, staring up at the ceiling. 

Twenty-five, and he was still living in his mother's basement. What a loser. 

He could move out, he knew. He could move anywhere.

But there wasn't anywhere he wanted to be. He didn't even want to be here, not really. He wanted to be where Wanda was.

He had no idea where Wanda was.

He didn't particularly want to be mooching off his mom for the rest of his life, but he couldn't leave. If he left, how would Wanda find him again? 

So he stayed, just in case she came back. He stayed, so she'd know where to find him. He stayed, because she'd said not to look for her. 

He stayed, because Wanda had been his everything, and at least here he still had the memories of her.

What a loser.

* * *

Erik could only watch in wonder as the furious Wanda tore the government testing facility apart like it was tissue paper. 

Bullets couldn't touch her—not metal, not plastic. The soldiers that went against her or got in her way were disintegrated. 

The power she had was incredible. Apocalypse-esque. 

Neither Erik nor the X-Men had anything to do but watch as Wanda tore a tiny part of the world down to get to her brother, pulling his naked, bloodied, limp form into her arms, whispering into his hair until his wounds closed and he breathed again. 

“Pietro,” she was sobbing, holding him close. “Oh, Pietro, I'm so sorry, I'm so so sorry.” 

“Don't cry,” Pietro whispered, cracking a small smile as he reached up with a trembling hand to brush the tears from her face. “I hate it when you cry.” 

Erik walked slowly over to his children, shoving his anger at the humans who did this to his son into the back of his mind to deal with later, crouching down next to them and putting his hand on his daughter's shoulder. 

“Come on,” he said softly. “Let's take Peter back to the mansion.” 

Wanda lifted her head to look at him, eyes glowing scarlet, and for a moment he was afraid, before the glow faded slightly, not quite gone but less murderous, and she stood, still holding her brother in her arms. 

Later, Erik was ashamed of the fear he'd felt of his own daughter. The whole world would fear and hate her when they saw what she could do; she should never have to deal with that from him. 

He watched as Wanda curled up in the hospital bed next to her brother, unwilling to leave him alone as he recovered. He watched as Pietro cheered her up with a story about him and Kurt pranking the younger kids, which somehow ended up with all of them pranking the professors, which somehow ended up with the invention of the game Paint-Ball Dance-Off that was now played religiously at the mansion every third Saturday of the month. Apparently they were trying to convince Charles to learn how to dance in a wheelchair so he could join them, mostly because they really wanted to get him covered in paint. 

Wanda was laughing by the end of it, and Erik's lips were quirking. 

He hadn't been there for Pietro or Wanda for their entire lives up to this point. But he vowed he'd be there for them now.

* * *

“Peter,” Erik said, as he approached the door to exit the mansion. “Move out of the way.” 

“Pietro,” Peter corrected, leaning against the closed door, arms crossed over his chest. “My real name is Pietro. Pietro Mateo Maximoff. My mom is Magda Eisenhardt Maximoff.” He tilted his head as he watched Erik's eyes widen. “Does any of that sound familiar?” 

“Magda,” Erik breathed. “You mean…?” 

“Yeah,” Peter said. “You're kind of my dad.” 

“Pietro,” Erik said, as if tasting the name in his mouth.

“Yeah,” Peter said. “That's me.” 

“Pietro,” Erik repeated, looking away, gaze distant. “That was one of the names Magda and I were thinking about naming Anya, if she'd been a boy.” 

“Yeah,” Peter said. 

Erik stared at him. “Pietro.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Move out of the way.” 

Pietro did, and Erik left.

* * *

“—five,” Erik said, opening his eyes to see an empty hallway in front of him. He raised an eyebrow. “Not as fast as you think you are, huh Peter?”

“Look behind you, old man,” came Peter's amused voice, and Erik turned to see his son standing there, holding the hand of the woman who must be his daughter.

He wasn't sure what he'd expected. It's not like he'd had very long to suspect much, but he supposed he'd expected Wanda to look like Magda had when she was younger, when Erik had met her. 

Wanda hardly resembled Magda, though. Erik was surprised to see much more of himself there. 

But what struck him most looking at the both of them standing there, holding hands, was the contrast between them. Short, light silver hair next to long, dark auburn. Dark brown eyes next to bright green. Black jeans and shirt for both, silver jacket for one and red for the other. Running shoes for one and combat boots for the other. 

“It's nice to finally meet you,” Wanda said, holding out her hand. “I've heard a lot about you.” 

“I can say the same to the first, though not the second,” Erik said, somewhat surprised at the formality of it as he shook her hand. 

But then the formality was gone as Wanda turned to her brother, crinkling her brow as she asked, “What have you told him, Pete?”

Peter shrugged. “Uh, that you exist?” 

“Pie!” she exclaimed.

“What?!” he defended. “I think I might have also told him that you're awesome and really smart and an actor. What was I _supposed_ to tell him?” 

“Pie?” Erik asked, raising an eyebrow. 

“Childhood nickname,” Peter said, shrugging. “She's the only one who can call me that without getting punched. Just like I'm the only one who can call her Witchy without getting punched.” 

A fist hit the air where his face had been a moment earlier. 

“And that's only because you're the only one who can dodge,” Wanda said wryly. 

“No, it's because you looooo-oooove me,” Peter sing-songed, dancing out of the way with a shit-eating grin on his face. “Because I'm awesome!”

“Not the word I'd used to describe you,” Wanda said dryly, though her eyes were smiling. 

Erik watched them, an odd sort of elation in his chest, a smile growing on his face that he couldn't have curbed even if he'd wanted to.

He was a father again. 

He was the father of two twenty-seven-year-old twin mutants with ridiculously powerful abilities and an apparent penchant for mischief, if Pietro stealing one of Wanda's shoes of her feet and then running around with it while she through scarlet hexes at him that shook the walls when they missed was any indication.

Pietro hid behind Erik as Wanda readied another one of her hex bolts, aiming at the both of them.

Well, Erik thought wryly as he created an electromagnetic forcefield around himself and Pietro. This was going to be interesting. 

“Not fair!” Wanda yelled at him. “You can't help him! Tell him to give me my shoe back!” 

“Peter,” Erik said, turning to level his son with a stern look. “Give your sister back her shoe.”

“Spoilsport,” Peter grumbled, but he was grinning as he tossed his twin the combat boot back. 

Yes, Erik thought, as he watched Pietro hang onto Wanda's arm and chatter excitedly while she tried to put on her boot again. This was going to be very interesting indeed. 

But he wouldn't trade this opportunity for anything in the world. 

Not even world domination. 

Well… maybe… 

The combat boot came flying at his head as Wanda yelled and tackled her brother to the ground, tickling him mercilessly.

...Erik would think about it. In the meantime, it had been too long since he'd tickled a child.

* * *

“Mystique,” Pietro said, appearing next to her. 

“What, Peter,” she said, clearly not in the mood.

“You have to tell Kurt he's your son,” Pietro said.

She looked at him, narrowing her yellow eyes. “You told Erik that he's your father?” 

“Uh-huh,” Pietro said, nodding and blowing a bubblegum bubble. 

“You didn't,” Mystique said.

“I did,” Pietro countered. “And then he stormed off in a huff. But now he knows, so now you have to let Kurt know.” 

“Let me know what?” Kurt asked as he entered the room, looking between them curiously. “What do I need to know?” 

“Speak of the devil himself!” Pietro grinned at the German. “Mystique needs to tell you something!”

Mystique glared down at the floor. 

“Hey,” Pietro said, softer, coming over to lay a hand on Mystique's blue shoulder. “Do you want me to stay for the emotional support, or do you want me to leave?” 

“Leave,” she ground out. 

“Okay,” he said, patting her on the shoulder again, before suddenly he was a few feet away. “You can do it, Mystique, I believe in you!” he said loudly, grinning and giving her two thumbs-up. “And I'm going to be checking in with Kurt later to make sure he knows, so you better actually tell him!” 

And then Pietro was gone.

“Tell me what?” Kurt asked again, looking at Mystique with a combination of curiosity and wariness.

Taking a deep breath, Mystique drew herself up, staring Kurt in the eyes as she said, “Kurt—”

* * *

“I'm quiting my acting job,” Wanda said as she lay next to Pietro on the medical bay bed, brushing a hand through his silver hair. 

“You're what?!” Pietro exclaimed, eyes shooting open as he tried to sit upright, only for her to put a hand to his chest and push him back down. 

“Relax,” she said severely. 

Peter obediently lay back into the pillows, but his face was still pulled in worry and confusion. “Alright, I'm relaxed. So what was it you said?”

“I said,” Wanda looked at him levelly, “that I'm quitting my acting job.” 

When he tried to sit bolt upright again, her hand was already there on his chest, keeping him down so he wouldn't hurt himself. 

“What?!” he was exclaiming, dark eyes wide. “Why the hell would you do that?! You love that job! You've wanted to be an actor since you were a little kid! You're living your dream! Why would you give that up?!” 

“So I can join the X-Men,” Wanda said, steadily. 

_“What?!”_ Peter cried, eyes blowing impossibly wider, body straining against her hand as he tried once more to sit up, failing to do so once again. _“Why would you do that?!_ All you've ever wanted since you got your powers was to live a normal life! You've been living a normal life, just like you've always wanted! Why the _fuck_ would you give that up?!”

Wanda was angry now, sitting up and glaring at him. “Because there are more important things!” she yelled at him, making him cower into the pillows, trying to get away from the hand that was still pressed against his bare chest. “There are more important things in life! Like family! It's not fair for me to live a normal life when you _can't_. And I won't live a normal life constantly afraid that something bad will happen to you and I won't be there to stop it!” 

“But sis,” Peter said softly, looking very much like he'd looked as a kid when she'd yelled at someone for saying something disparaging about him that he hadn't even noticed because he'd been so used to it.

“No!” Wanda said severely, eyes flashing. “I mean this! I'm quitting my acting job, joining the X-Men and keeping your ass out of trouble. Family is more important than anything else, and we need to stick together and take care of each other.” She looked over to the door. “Isn't that right, Erik?” 

Blinking, Peter looked over to the door as well, to see Erik standing there in the doorway watching them. Peter hadn't even noticed him standing there. 

“Dude!” Peter exclaimed, eyes wide. “How long have you been standing there, dad?” 

Erik smiled slightly, eyes unreadable. “Long enough,” he said to his son, before turning to his daughter. “And you're absolutely right, Wanda.” 

“Whoa,” Peter said, looking back and forth between the two of them, who seemed to be having some kind of intense sort of staring contest thing going on. “Does that mean you're staying, Dadneto?” 

Erik broke eye contact to look at his son, crossing over the room to sit on the bed next to Wanda, smiling slightly as he brushed a hand through Peter's silver hair, just as Wanda had only a few minutes before. 

“Yes, my children,” Erik said softly. “I'm staying.”

* * *

Erik had a son. 

Erik had a twenty-seven-year-old son that he'd never known about. 

Erik had a twenty-seven-year-old son that he'd never know about that he'd almost watched get killed by Apocalypse. 

Erik had a twenty-seven-year-old son that he'd never know about that he'd almost watched get killed by Apocalypse, who he'd been helping. 

Oh, god, no. He couldn't have another child. He couldn't. He couldn't have any more family, they'd just be taken away from him again. He couldn't have a son just to lose him. He couldn't. No. 

His mother and father had been taken from him because of what they all were. His first daughter had been killed because of what he was. His first wife had left him because of what he was. His second wife and second daughter had been killed because of what and who he was.

And if the people around him that he cared about didn't die, then they got injured. Like Charles. Charles had become partially paralyzed, because of him. Raven had become angry and bitter. All his other followers had been killed. He hadn't even been able to save the President, and instead he'd been locked up in the Pentagon for killing him. 

Locked up in the Pentagon, where his son had broken him out. 

No. He couldn't have a son. He'd just get Pietro killed, too. He couldn't get close to this boy. The only reason Pietro had lived to twenty-seven was because Erik hadn't been there to get to him killed. If Erik wanted Pietro to live, he'd have to stay away.

Oh god, he had to stay away from that kid. 

It was the only way to protect him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [EDIT 06/23/16]: Notes on Peter's speed are in the beginning author notes of the next chapter, because I had to come back and edit this chapter to make it canon because originally my Quicksilver was way too slow, and I want to make sure that people who read the original version of this chapter aren't confused when they see his speed having changed in the following chapters.


	2. Timewarp pt.I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time warps, reality bends, and Quicksilver lives his lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't originally planning on writing more for this story, but then ideas happened.And then it got really long, so I had to break it up into five parts. 
> 
> I really hope that you all enjoy this at least as much as you enjoyed the first chapter! Although, just to warn you all, this one is even weirder, because I combine elements from the movies and comics and animated cartoon series. Which I actually did in the first chapter, but I did even more so in these next chapters. 
> 
> No, seriously, things get really weird. Though that didn't seem to stop you guys from reading the first chapter… it probably won't stop you from reading this one, either.
> 
> * * *
> 
>  **EDIT ABOUT QUICKSILVER'S SPEED** : It turns out that how I'd originally written Quicksilver was WAY too slow. His Marvel wikia page is stupid and confusing and not to be trusted, lol. I'd originally written him at Mach 5, but Gubz on youtube did the math, and it turns out that, in _X-Men: Apocalypse_ , Quicksilver's fasted speed—when he's running at superspeed _within_ superspeed—is Mach 112,535, which is 86,336,193.6 miles an hour, which is 38,595,732 meters per second, which is a little over a tenth of the speed of light. Which means he could run around the equator—a distance of 24,901 miles—3,467.177744 times in a single second. So yeah, WAY over Mach 5.
> 
> That's crazy fast. 
> 
> And in the comics he's run at speeds greater than the speed of light. When I was trying to determine a speed for him, I was kinda erring on the (REALLY) low side for the sake of caution because I didn't want to overpower him. But it turns out he's way overpowered even in movie canon, so I went back and fixed this chapter to be canon. 
> 
> And his rate of perception is such that one second for normal people is 2,760 seconds for Quicksilver, which is 44.5 minutes. A normal person's reaction time is 0.25 seconds, and dividing that by 2,760 gives us Peter's reaction time, at 0.09058 milliseconds.
> 
> Uh huh. Yeah. Badass, right? 
> 
> I don't feel like he can turn his powers _off_ , per say, but I feel like he has to be able to control, to some degree, the speed of the world as he perceives it, else he'd go crazy.

* * *

**Timewarp (Sweet Dreams Are Made Of This ((don't) Wake Me Up (you dare)))**  
**pt.I**

* * *

Pietro “Peter” Maximoff was well acquainted with fear. 

He knew the fear of the driver behind the wheel of a car going 268 miles per hour when the gas pedal is stuck to the floor and the breaks only work half the time, and each try was another flip of the coin, completely independent from the one before it; just because the break hadn't worked the past fifteen tries didn't mean it was any more likely to work the next. 

He knew the fear of the lost and confused child trying desperately to understand a world outside of their control, a world that doesn't make sense, and everyone's speaking a language that they don't speak. 

He knew the fear of the abandoned dog locked out in the cold, free of the chain that binds it, able to run everywhere and anywhere but the warmth it desires, the lights, the fire, the laughter detectable through the windows and the crack in the door. 

He knew the fear of the the soldier with the whole world in their hands, fingers hovering above the button, the controls: the death of millions determinable by one split-second decision. 

He knew the fear of student staring at the D's and F's on their report card, knowing that they'd tried their hardest only to have everything fall through their fingers through no fault of their own, whether from the letters and numbers scrambling around the page, the yells and screams and gunshots making sleep impossible in the night, the teachers who stared and spoke like dead things. 

He knew the fear of the kid shoved into their locker by the school bully, locked in that small, dark space, pounding on the metal till their fists ached, yelling for someone, anyone, to let them out, finally collapsing in the space and curling in on themselves, wondering if they'd ever be let out or if they'd die there, wondering if anyone would notice they were gone. 

He knew the fear of the person who returned home late from work to find their house on fire, who tried to run inside only to find all their loved ones burned alive, able to do nothing but save themselves and wish they'd arrived home earlier. 

He knew the fear of the bird that flew too high for anything to touch it, vulnerable only when it swooped low to feed, so used to believing itself impervious that it didn't think it were any more able to die down below its realm of immunity than within it. 

He knew the fear of the snail, unable to stop the boot form squashing it, unable to move any faster out of the way. 

He knew the fear of the person who'd had their heart taken from them to be replaced by only a cold, heavy lump of lead. 

“Wanda,” he whispered into the dark. “Please, come back to me. I'm afraid… I'm so afraid… you were always the brave one, Wanda, please…” 

“You're not afraid,” said the voice that sounded like Wanda. “Don't tell me you're afraid. You promised never to lie to me.” 

“If I'm not afraid, then what am I?” he cried into the dark. 

“You're in pain,” said the voice that sounded like Wanda. “You moved too slow and it caught up to you. You need to be faster, Pietro. So fast the pain can't catch you.” 

“I can't, Wanda,” he whimpered into the dark. “I can't be any faster.” 

“Pietro,” said the voice that sounded like Wanda. “I thought I told you not to lie to me.” 

“I'm sorry,” he gasped as the darkness peeled from around him and he was assaulted with light. “I'm sorry, Wanda.”

* * *

The world was still. 

Pietro placed one foot in front of the other, one foot in front of the other, one foot in front of the other, one foot in front of the other till both feet were off the ground at once, only one ever touching the ground at any given moment, touching more air than earth. 

The tread of his sneakers burned away soon after the darkness.

* * *

“Peter,” Charles said, as the young boy went from not being in the room to being lying on the floor on his face, having tripped on the blanket hugged around his thin shoulders. “What are you doing awake at this hour?” 

“I had a nightmare,” the young boy said, sitting up huddled in the blanket, silver hair falling into wide, dark eyes. “I want—I want daddy.” 

“Your dad isn't here,” Charles said, softly, before patting his leg and offering a smile. “Why don't you sit with me and tell me what happened in your dream?” 

The young boy climbed slowly onto the professor's lap, curling against his chest, shivering. The professor's hand carded through his silver hair.

“What did you dream about, son?” Charles murmured, gently. 

“I'm not your son,” the young boy muttered petulantly, but didn't make to pull away. 

The professor gave a dramatic sigh. “Oh, but how I wish you were. I would be a very lucky and proud man indeed to have a son as bright and talented as you.” 

The young boy sniffed against his chest. “Then why is daddy never home?” 

“He just wants to protect you, Peter. He wants you to be safe.” 

“I don't feel safe, Professor. The nightmare keeps coming, and I can't stop it.” 

“What nightmare, Peter?” 

“The—the nightmare where I start running, and I c-can't stop, I c—I can't stop.” He buried his head in Charles' shirt, shoulders shaking. 

“Why can't you stop, my dear Peter?” 

“B-because I don't—I don't want to. I don't want to st-st-stop.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because—b-because it h-hurts. It hurts when I stop.” 

“Where does it hurt?”

“Ev—everywhere, Professor. It h-h—it hurts ever—all over. Everywhere.”

“I'm sorry, Peter.” 

“Wh-what? Why?” 

“Because you're going to have to bear a great deal of pain. This isn't real, Peter. You need to wake up.”

* * *

Peter snorted as he craned his neck, peering behind the couch at where Kurt, Bobby, and several Jamies were hiding behind the couch. 

“Pfft, you're scared of a little horror film?” Peter snorted, turning back to watch the zombies stagger on the screen. 

“It'z very zcary,” Kurt defended, holding onto a Jamie and not peeking up over the top of the couch. “Te dead are not meant to valk. Und—”

There was a scream as the zombies attacked and ate one of the protagonists.

The Jamies cried, burying their heads against Kurt and Bobby, the two older boys looking almost more terrified than the kid and his many equally scared multiples. 

“—Und das,” Kurt whispered, orange eyes glancing towards the door, the dark hall that lay beyond. “Hau ahre you not afraid, Peter?”

“Pshht, I'm not afraid of anything,” Peter said airily, waving a hand, turning his bored gaze back to the screen before him. “Also, zombies are really slow.”

* * *

Erik couldn't sleep, the familiar paranoia gripping him. 

So he stood, slipped his robe on over his pajamas, padded down the hall on the familiar route to his childrens' room, opening the door and standing there in the doorway as he watched the twins sleep. 

They were twenty-seven, and still ended up sleeping in the same bed more often than not.

He smiled at the sight, the two of them curled around each other like large cats, dark hair tangled with silver. 

The beating of his heart slowed and calmed, the fear leaving him with every breath he saw them take, the slow rises and falls of Wanda's chest, the quickened rises and falls of Pietro's. 

“Stop looming, old man,” came Pietro's groggy voice, dark eyes cracked open to look at him, a hand reaching out to lift the edge of the blankets. “Just fucking get in already. It's fucking cold out.” 

Erik fell asleep again with his children in his arms, warm and alive and magnificent. 

He woke up to Pietro jumping on the bed and yelling and Wanda using a hex to throw the speedster across the room. 

Erik groaned when Pietro bounced back and started poking his sister relentlessly, causing her to try to hit him and end up smacking Erik in the face instead. 

Then the covers were pulled off them, and Wanda sat up and started yelling while Erik started laughing.

“I'm cooooold,” Peter suddenly whined, squeezing in between them and shivering. 

Erik gave his son his robe, dreading the state it would be in when it returned. 

How Peter managed to catch so many of the articles of clothing he wore on fire, Erik would never know.

* * *

“Sweet dreams are made of thiiiis,” Peter sang, watching the blood seep through his fingers. 

The shard of metal was embedded deep in his shoulder, poking out the other side. 

“Some of them want to use youuu,” Peter sang, pulling out the piece of metal that could very well of embedded itself in his knee, if the Master of Magnetism had felt so inclined. 

The blood poured faster now that the wound was unobstructed, and Peter laughed as Magneto hovered above him. 

“Some of them want to get used by youuu…

* * *

“Some of them want to abuse youuuu,” Peter sang, laughing as he tickled his sister, Wanda giggling and threatening to pound him into the wall if he didn't stop right then. 

He didn't stop, and she threw him off her, tackling him to the ground and proceeding to dig her fingers into his sides, laughing as he panted and squirmed.

“Some of them want to be abuuused...” 

“Oh, shut up, Pie,” she said, and squeezed his legs above the knees until his shrieking woke the entire mansion. 

“For the love of—!” a furious Scott Summers roared, barging into the room. “What do you think you're doing?!” 

Wanda pounced on their young team leader, Peter right behind her. 

Poor Scott never had a chance. 

“I will… get you back for that…” Scott panted later, as the three of them lay next to each other on the floor, staring up at the angry face of Wolverine. 

“Yeah,” Peter grinned, slugging the younger man in the shoulder. “Sure you will.” 

“Ya have till the count of three to get yerselves to the breakfast table before I fillet ya and feed ya to the bears in Siberia,” Wolverine growled. 

“One—” 

Wanda and Pietro were gone. 

“Two—”

Scott was gone.

“Three.” 

“You're welcome for saving your life,” Peter said in the kitchen, as Scott struggled not to throw up from being zoomed through the mansion. 

“Yeah, remind me that again the next time I'm debating whether or not to save you from catching yourself on fire,” Scott muttered, slowly removing his hand from over his mouth. 

“Hey,” Peter protested indignantly, “that was all Pyro's fault!” 

“Uh huh,” Scott said flatly. “Sure it was.” 

“What was all my fault, mate?” the redhead in question yawned as he shuffled into the room, plopping down into a chair. “I swear I didn't do nothing.” 

“Double negative!” Peter declared, leaping back to his feet and gesturing at the other boy wildly. “He just admitted guilt!” 

Storm had been cooking eggs on the stove, but Pyro stole the flames to create a flame-horse that chased Peter out of the room.

“DAAAAAAAAD!” Peter's voice could be heard. “PYRO'S PICKING ON ME AGAIN!” 

“For goodness' sakes, Peter! You're twenty-seven years old!” Erik grumbled, grabbing his son by the collar and dragging him back to the kitchen, waving the flame horse away. 

“Yeah, but I have to make you make up for all the years of my childhood you missed!” 

Erik sighed, rubbing his forehead. “And here I thought I'd gotten th easy way out of childcare…” 

Peter started shouting indignantly, and Erik grabbed him in a headlock, ruffling his hair and laughing.

* * *

“Pietro.”

Peter looked up in surprise to see the woman standing next to Magneto, long auburn hair fluttering behind her, green eyes tinged with scarlet. 

“Wanda…” Peter breathed, eyes wide and stinging, hand clenched over the wound in his shoulder, blood pouring over his fingers, a darker scarlet than the chaos energy in her eyes. 

She walked toward him, every bit as beautiful and powerful as he remembered. 

The pain in his chest wasn't just from his injury. 

“Pietro,” he whispered, fingers beneath his chin as she forced him to look at her. “Join us. Join our cause. I want you to be by my side again.” 

You're the one who left, Pietro didn't say. 

“We could be together again,” she whispered, and he watched her lips form the words because the pain was pounding so loudly he could barely hear anything, much less make sense of it. 

The world had slowed to a crawl. 

“You know how powerful we are when we're together,” she said, and those scarlet lips smiled beauteously. 

_I've traveled the world and the seven seas_ , Peter thought, his mind hazing with blood loss. _And all I've felt was empty, without you._

“Don't you want that, Pie? We could be perfect.” 

_Who am I to disagree?_ Peter thought. Wanda had always been the smart one, after all. 

“I want that, Wanda,” he breathed, eyes closing. Tears streaked down his face. “I want that so much. That's all I've ever wanted.” 

_Everybody's looking for something._

He tried to reach out for her, but the pain in his shoulder flared, making him scream. 

“Shhh, Pie,” she whispered as she brushed away his tears. “It's okay. You'll be okay.”

* * *

Wanda was crying, clinging to him, and he tugged her along the dirt road, dark eyes looking around them frantically. 

He'd run them far, far away, but he swore he could still hear the villagers yelling, brandishing their pitchforks, their shouts of “Witch! Witch! Burn the witch!” 

Wanda was crying, clinging to him, and he carefully brushed the auburn hair from her tear-streaked face. 

“Hold your head up, Wanda,” he murmured, and she raised her face to look at him. The look in her green eyes broke his heart. “Keep you head up,” he said, lifting her chin, brushing away her tears with a thumb. “We need to move on.” 

“Pietro,”' she whispered, and he heard the words she didn't say. 

“It's okay,” he told her. “As long as we have each other, we'll be okay. We're all each other will ever need. It's us against the world from now on, Wanda. But we have each other, so it will be okay. We'll be okay, Wanda. Just keep your head up, okay?” 

She nodded and lifted a hand to scrub away her tears.

* * *

“What do you mean this isn't real?!” the young boy cried, clinging to Xavier's shirt, dark eyes glistening, scared and pleading. 

“You're dreaming, Peter,” Charles said gently, brushing a strand of silver hair from his face. “You need to wake up. This is all inside your head.” 

“You can't get inside my head,” the young boy said. “I think too fast. You said so yourself.” 

Charles smiled softly. “I can't get into your head under normal circumstances, yes. But I had a little help.” 

Dark eyes widened. “Wanda?” he asked, excited. “Wanda's here?” 

“She's waiting for you when you wake up,” Charles said softly. “You need to wake up, Peter.”

The young boy bit is lip. “So, if this is a dream… then… then my nightmare was… the pain is…” 

“I'm sorry, Peter,” Charles said. 

The young boy was no longer on his lap, and an older Pietro was standing against the wall. 

“So,” the older Pietro said, flicking open a switch knife. “Sweet dreams are made of this, huh?” 

“Peter—”

“Get out of my head, Charles. Things are going to get messy in _einen Augenblick._ ” 

Charles returned back to his head shaken, and it took him a few moments to realize why. 

_Peter had looked and sounded so much like Erik._

* * *

“Du…” Kurt said quietly, after Mystique finished her story about how she'd met Azazel, how he'd taught her to fight, how they'd fallen in love, how she'd discovered she was pregnant a few months after Azazel had been killed and a few weeks after Erik had been arrested for murdering the President, how she'd panicked and fled to Germany, how a family there took her in and she'd left the baby there after giving birth and disappeared, too afraid of being a mother to stay, too consumed by the need for revenge. “Du… du bist meine Mutter?” 

Mystique took a shaky breath, a hand brushing back through wavy blond hair, before she closed her eyes and changed back into her natural form. 

“Ja,” she said, just as quiet. 

Her yellow eyes flew open when his body crashed into hers, arms wrapping around her, his face pressed against her neck. 

“Mutter,” he whispered, shaking. “Mama.” 

She stood stock still, uncertain of what to do. She thought he'd be upset, but when he pulled away he was smiling, teeth sharp and eyes bright. 

“Du bist meine Mutter,” he exclaimed. “Das ist toll!” 

Slowly, Mystique smiled back at him. 

There was a camera flash, and they both turned to see Peter standing there with a camera, giving them a grin and a thumbs-up. 

“Peter!” Mystique yelled at him. “I told you to leave!” 

“Warum?” Peter asked, still grinning. “Ihr seid süß!” He waved the camera. “Ihr dankt mir später!”

* * *

“Hey!” one of the soldiers said, as the piece of the plane was lifted to reveal a mutant with curly blond hair, metal wings. “This mutant's still alive!” 

Stryker walked over and looked down at the mutant that was barely breathing. 

“Pack him up and take him back to the facility,” Stryker said decisively. “If he lives, we can use him. If he doesn't, well, at least we can dissect him.”

* * *

“Hallo,” Kurt greeted, nodding at Erik as they passed each other in the hall.

“Guten Tag,” Erik nodded in return. “Weißt du, wo mein Sohn ist?”

Kurt shook his head. “Es tut mir leid, das weiß ich nicht.”

Erik nodded and kept walking.

* * *

“Don't tell Wanda where I am,” Peter whispered urgently to Storm as he appeared in her room. “We're playing hide-and-seek.”

And then he proceeded to hide himself in her closet.

Storm rolled her eyes, and continued reading her book. 

Twenty minutes later, Wanda threw open the door and stomped into Storm's room, hands on her hips. “Have you seen my brother?” she demanded. 

“Yeah,” Storm said, not looking up as she turned another page of her novel. “He's hiding in my closet.” 

Wanda stomped over to the door, threw it open, grabbed Peter by the ear, and dragged him whining out of the room. 

“Ororo!” Peter cried, scrabbling as he held his sister's wrist to keep her from tearing his ear off, or something equally morbid that she would never actually do to him but would certainly threaten and make it sound believable. “You traitor! You betrayed me!” 

Storm didn't look up. “Don't hide in my closet, next time,” she said, and kept reading.

* * *

“Warren Wortmann,” Stryker read off the file, lifting an eyebrow at the winged mutant strapped down to the table. 

“You're pronouncing it wrong,” the creature spat, metal wings straining against their bonds. “It's German, so it's pronounced _Vahr-ehn Vahrt-mahn_. But it's just _Angel_ to you.” 

“There's no point in struggling,” Stryker said dryly. “Those bonds are pure steel. You have no chance of breaking them.” 

The mutant's wings flexed, and metal feathers shot like bullets, impaling the guards. 

Stryker watched them slide dead down the walls, leaving streaks of red blood on the metal, before looking back at the mutant. “Good aim,” he said, noting that the mutant had pierced a feather through his own hand. 

“I know,” the mutant said, smirking sharply, jerking his hand towards himself, the blood-coated metal feather slicing through the steel bond. 

Stryker made a hasty retreat, locking the door to the room behind him. Already he could hear metal screeching as the mutant continued to free himself. 

“Should've used the adamantium,” Stryker muttered as he strode away down the hall. He pressed the com on his collar, saying, “We have a mutant on the loose, Room 1002. Send Weapon XII down here to take him out.” 

He felt a gust of wind, and knew that Weapon XII had been dispatched. 

These mutants were damn hard to keep contained. The only thing that seemed to work was to use their own kind against them. 

It was really too bad they'd lost Weapon X and Weapon XI. He'd make sure they didn't lose Weapon XII, though. 

And maybe the winged mutant would prove a good candidate to become Weapon XIII.

* * *

Peter sped into the Professor's study to find the Prof and Erik playing a game of chess. 

He looked at their faces, Charles's gaze focused on the board, Erik's gaze focused on the Charles. 

Whoa, dad was being creepy. 

But admittedly, he kind of looked creepy whenever he was staring at anything. He just kinda had this intense look about him. It was the same kind of intensity that Wanda had. 

Peter had always wondered if she'd gotten the creepy intensity from their father, because it definitely hadn't been their mother. 

Turned out she had. 

Peter turned to look at the all the little figurines on the board. He grabbed one of the horse-head pieces and made it gallop around the board, knocking the other pieces down. He picked up one of the taller tower-looking pieces, eying it for a moment, shaking it, then shrugged, setting it back down upright on the board. Then he picked up the other pieces and set them upright as well, placing them in a random pattern that resembled the general distribution of black and white pieces as they'd been originally when he'd come in. 

Then he ran back out of the room, still in between Charles's and Erik's heartbeats.

* * *

Charles was staring intently the chess board, and he blinked in surprise and they suddenly changed positions, a gust of wind the only clue as to what had caused it. 

Charles sighed. “Peter.”

“What?” Erik asked, blinking as well, before shifting his gaze from Charles to the board, sighing as he realized what had happened. 

“Peter,” Erik agreed. 

Charles looked at the board again, and then his eyes brightened. 

“Well, would you look at that,” he said, moving his queen and then looking up to grin at Erik. “Checkmate.”

Erik groaned. “That does not count. Peter changed the board, and it's clear he had no idea what he was doing.” 

Charles just grinned and took Erik's king. “I suppose it's convenient he changed the board as he did, though. This game could have gone on for at least another hour, and I was starting to feel rather peckish.”

“Well, then,” Erik said, standing up grandly and gesturing Charles towards the door. “By all means, let us eat. It's about time for dinner, anyway.” 

Charles wheeled himself towards the door, saying, “Indeed. I just hope Hank didn't claim his turn in the kitchen and make one of his cooking experiments again…” 

“For a scientific genius, you'd think he'd be better at the simple chemistry of baking,” Erik agreed dryly, following behind.

* * *

There was an explosion, and Peter was the first one in the kitchen to see what happened. 

He found Hank in his blue furry form, eyes wide, fur wild and covered in black soot, a smoldering pot of something in his hands. 

By the time everyone else ran in, Peter was already rolling on the floor laughing. 

“Well,” Scott said, as he eyed the smoking mess of whatever it was Hank had tried to cook. “At least we don't have to eat it and then all rush off to the bathroom to throw up, this time.” 

Hank scowled, and Peter laughed harder.

* * *

“Do you know where Peter is?” Scott asked Jean, coming over to where she was studying in the library. “He's not in his room, and he's not outside on the running track terrorizing the kids taking P.E., either.”

“He's in the recreation room,” Jean said, not looking up from her homework. “I don't know what he's doing, though. I can't tell much more than where he is.” 

“At least you can tell _that,_ ” Scott pointed out, turning to leave. “Thank you, Jean.” 

Jean looked up to watch him leave, smiling slightly, before going back to her math textbook. 

She drew little hearts with fiery wings around the problem she was working on, then blushed and quickly started erasing them. 

“Cute,” Peter said, leaning on her chair, but by the time she whirled around he was already back in the recreation room again. 

She sighed, feeling irritation swell up within her, but she quickly smothered it. It didn't make sense to get upset with him simply because she couldn't tell what he was thinking.

If anything, she should be grateful that one of the minds in the mansion wasn't screaming thoughts in her head, all the time. 

Still, she wrote _Fuck you, Peter_ , neatly in the margins of her textbook, before going back to working on her math problem.

When she glanced back at the textbook several minutes later, the words, _Fuck you too, Jean_ , had been written underneath her own message, the script messy and tilted, letters practically falling over themselves in their apparent effort to race off the page. 

She smiled slightly.

* * *

“Peter,” Scott greeted as he came into the recreation room, finding the silver-haired mutant lounging on the couch, watching the TV with an unusual amount of interest.

“Scott,” Peter greeted, and he didn't appear to have glanced at the teen, but he probably had, just to fast for Scott to register. 

The question Scott had come to ask Peter was put on the backburner temporarily as he asked instead, “What are you watching?” and shoved the speedster's legs off the couch to sit down next to him, watching the screen curiously and ignoring Peter's annoyed whining at having 'his space' invaded. 

“Oh, just a movie,” Peter shrugged, too casual. “Joan of Arc, or something.” 

Scott sat up slightly as a familiar, green-eyed woman appeared on screen, however dressed as a man as she was. “Hey, is that Wanda Frank? She's one of my favorite actors!” 

“Yeah, she's pretty great, huh,” Peter said, a hint of what almost sounded like pride in his voice, his attention fixed on the screen. “Her movies are like the only films I can stand, and only because of her.” 

Scott glanced over at the speedster, smiling. “Someone's got a crush, huh?” 

Peter looked at him, alarmed, cheeks tinging pink slightly. “What? Oh, god no! Nothing like that!” 

Scott laughed, patting the speedster on the knee. “It's okay, man. I'm pretty sure every guy has a crush on Wanda Frank. She's really great. And not just her acting. Have you listened to any interviews with her? She's just a genuinely cool person.” 

Peter looked away, hands clenching, before he relaxed, letting out a sigh that almost seemed longsuffering. “Yeah,” was all he said, looking back at the screen, smiling slightly. “She really is.”

* * *

“Wanda Frank,” Peter said in a deadpan. “Your actress alias is going to be 'Wanda Frank.' Who the fuck told you that was a good name?”

Wanda snorted, punching him in the arm. “Hey! I came up with that last name!” 

“Well then,” Peter said. “You're a fuck.”

Wanda punched him again, glaring, and he laughed slightly, pulling away, raising his hands placatingly. “Okay, okay! Geez, no need to get all worked up.” He appeared on her bed, moving an open, half-filled suitcase out of the way so he could sit. “But seriously though. Why _Frank?”_

“I just wanted a last name that sounds relatively normal,” Wanda shrugged. “More normal than 'Maximoff.' But not _too_ normal, y'know? Like, no 'Smith' or 'Williams' or anything like that. Those names are of British origin or something, anyway. 'Frank' sounds more normal than 'Maximoff,' but it's of German, Dutch, Scandinavian, Slovenian, Czech, Hungarian, and Jewish origin. So it's still close ethnicity-wise, y'know?” 

“I guess,” Peter said, shrugging. “'Wanda Frank' still sounds weird, though. And if you're going to have an alias for being an actor, shouldn't you have a name that's a little more, I dunno, shiny, or something? Isn't that what people usually do?” 

“I didn't want anything that sounded like a Mary Sue name,” Wanda said, a hint of disgust in her voice, throwing one of her bras at his head. 

“Hey!” Peter protested, ducking. “What was that for?” 

“I was aiming for the suitcase,” she said innocently. “Would you mind putting it in there, for me, dear brother?” 

Peter rolled his eyes, but put the bra in the suitcase anyway. “You need to work on your aim, then, dear sister.” 

She stuck her tongue out at him, and then he stuck her tongue out at her, and then for several moments they both kept sticking their tongues out at each other, until finally they started laughing. 

“We are _so_ immature,” Wanda said, grinning. 

“It's all your influence, Wanda, I assure you,” Peter said, as sagaciously as it was possible for him to say anything. 

“No, it was definitely your influence,” Wanda said, holding up a Pink Floyd t-shirt she'd stolen from Peter a few years ago, folding it and putting it away carefully in the suitcase. “Boys mature slower than girls do.” 

“Oh, what, so you're saying I slowed you down?” he asked, darting around the room like a hummingbird as he packed away her stuff, finally pulling to a stop next to her with her suitcases closed and packed, grinning. “Is that what you're saying?” 

“Pretty ironic, considering how fast you are, isn't it?” 

Peter stuck his tongue out at her again, laughing at darting out of the way before she could hit him.

* * *

For someone as fast as Peter was, he always seemed to be too late. 

He could run to speeds up to Mach 112,524, yet somehow he was never fast enough. 

Not fast enough to stop Wanda from leaving. Not fast enough to figure out Erik was his father. Not fast enough to reach Erik before he left. Not fast enough to see Weapon Plus's trap before he fell right into it. Not fast enough to escape. 

“All in all it's just another brick in the wall,” Peter hummed weakly, staring up at the cold, gray ceiling, the cold floor beneath his back, the cold seeping into his bones. “All in all you're just another brick in the wall.” 

He shivered, and then cringed and cried out slightly as what seemed like every inch of his body screamed in pain. Maybe there was, like, some small parts of his body that didn't hurt, though. The tip of his nose and ears. His dick. The inside of his ass. Places like that. Some things to be thankful for. 

And maybe his mouth wouldn't hurt, either, if it wasn't for the split lip and the parched throat, sandpaper tongue. 

Sandpaper. Sandpaper. He mouthed the word. Sandpaper. 

One letter away from a sandpiper. One sound away from a sandpiper. 

Sandpaper tongue. Sandpiper tongue. What the hell did sandpiper tongues look like, anyway? 

Sandpaper. Sandpiper. Soundpiper. Soundpaper. 

He supposed that a soundpiper make more sense than soundpaper. What the hell was soundpaper? 

Fuck, even his brain hurt. Like someone had been trying to scrub it out with soundpaper.

Wait, no. Sandpiper. No. 

Sandpaper. That was it. 

Like someone had been trying to scrub it out with sandpaper. 

Metal creaked, and he turned his head weakly—ow—to see three guards enter his cell. 

“Get up,” one of them said, picking him up harshly by the arm, making him cry out again. “Another round in the chair for you.” 

They started dragging him down the hall, his legs too weak to hold him. 

“We don't need no education,” he managed to rasp. “We don't need no thought control.” 

“Shut up,” one of the guards said, elbowing him hard in the stomach.

Peter cried out, pain lancing through him, and it took him several minutes for the pain to die down enough for him to gasp out, “No dark sarcasm, in the classroom…”

* * *

“Hey! Teachers!” Peter shouted, standing on in the middle of the Danger Room, splattered in paint, hands cupped around his mouth to be heard over the laughing and shrieking of the other paint-covered students running helter-skelter about him,. “Leave us kids alone!” 

“Fat chance,” Erik said coolly, and shot another paintball at him.

* * *

The scientists shot another injection of some likely highly-dangerous chemical into him. 

When his agonized screaming and spasming finally stopped, he was tossed onto a treadmill and told to “Run, devil. Run.” 

_Fucking assholes_ , he thought as he gained his footing and ran. _Like this treadmill will even survive me._

* * *

The first thought that crossed his mind when the electricity stopped thrumming through his brain was that he was sick and tired of screaming.

“Are you sure you should be using such high voltage? No human would be able to survive that.” 

The second thought that crossed his mind was that he wasn't sure who he was. 

“Need I remind you that he is not a human, Dr. Fulton.” 

The third thought that crossed his mind was that he didn't know where he was.

“Of course not, Dr. Killbrew. I just thought—”

The fourth thought that crossed his mind wasn't so much a thought as a seizing feeling of apprehension and latent terror. 

“Shock him again. His brain patterns are not yet appropriately unbalanced.” 

The fifth thought that crossed his mind before electricity started thrumming through his brain again was that his throat felt like soundpaper, whatever the fuck that was.

* * *

_“What the fuck?!”_ Peter exclaimed as he skidded to a stop in the Professor's office to find Charles and Erik snogging each other quite soundly. 

Magneto and Professor X hurriedly pulled away from each other, looking eerily like teenagers caught graffitiing the walls of the bathroom with curse words and other rude phrases. 

“Ah, Peter,” Charles said hastily, face flushing, before turning to guilty-looking Erik and saying, “Erik, I think there's something you need to tell your son.” 

Erik swallowed, nodding, before turning to his gaping son and clearing his throat. “Look, Peter,” he started. “Charles and I—”

“That is _not_ something I need to know about!” Peter cried, speeding out of the room, leaving only a gust of wind in his wake.

* * *

“Well,” Erik remarked, as they stared at the spot where Peter had been. “That could have gone better.” 

“Could have gone worse,” Charles pointed out. 

Erik groaned. “Must you _always_ see the glass half full, Charles?”

“Must _you_ always see it half empty?” Charles retorted, lips quirking in amusement. 

“My pessimism is part of my charm, I've heard,” Erik deadpanned. 

“Yes, it really does wonders for your personality,” Charles said wryly. “Especially when it results in you believing that the entire human race is out to get us and subsequently trying to kill them all and take over the world.”

* * *

The world was tearing apart, and Magneto floated above it all, hands raised and power in his eyes. 

The terrified and panicked humans screamed below, scrambling like rats in a sewer, disgusting and pathetic as they tried to flee the flood of water coming to drown them. 

_“We will destroy this world,”_ Apocalypse had said, _“and on its ashes we will build a better one.”_

 _Yes_ , Erik thought, feeling the world crumble apart at his fingers, _we shall._

The humans would pay for what they'd done to him. For what they'd done to ones he loved. 

They would pay, and Magneto would walk over the ruins of their cities, their bones crunching beneath his feet.

* * *

“Then why do you love me, Charles?” Erik asked, kneeling down in front of the man in the wheelchair and taking one of his hands, looking into his eyes. “After all I've done?” 

“Oh, Erik,” Charles said, smiling as reached out and brushed his fingers over the other man's harsh jaw. “How I wish I knew that answer myself.”

* * *

There was a _crunch_ as the boy's knee snapped, before he fell to the ground with a scream.

Like Charles had fallen to the ground with a scream when the bullet had hit his spine. 

_“I'm going to fight for what I have left,”_ Mystique had said, staring at him with those beautiful yellow eyes. _“Are you?”_

Apocalypse was choking the life out of her, and Magneto watched, feeling something coil metallic in his chest. 

Apocalypse advanced on Charles, and the metal moved. 

_I will not let you destroy what little I have left._

* * *

Erik stared at him, eyes shuttering, gaze closing off. “You don't know, then? Why you love me.” 

Charles's hand rested against the side of his face, thumb brushing over his lips. 

“I suppose,” Charles said slowly, “that you just have a magnetic personality.” 

Erik let out a surprised laugh, looking up to find Charles's eyes laughing as well. 

“That was terrible,” Erik told him. 

“Terrible is more _your_ forte, I think,” Charles murmured, chuckling slightly when Erik surged forward to kiss him. 

“You're terrible,” Erik said when they pulled away, glaring, but the curve of his lips was fond. 

“You would know,” Charles said, laughing when Erik shut him up by kissing him again.

* * *

The coin flew through the man's neck, and he dropped. 

Erik kept on walking, the bloody coin weaving through the air between his fingers.

* * *

Erik watched the young boy with dark brown hair and eyes stand with his hand against the large wall of glass, staring out in wonder at the city below, teeming with mutants flying, crawling, running, sliding. 

A world where Homo superior, not Homo sapiens, ruled the planet. 

Erik walked over to his grandson, standing beside him and watching as Iceman wove iceslides around the sky scrapers as Sunspot chased after him, burning brightly in the evening light. 

Erik put his hand on his grandson's shoulder, and the boy looked up at him, dark eyes wide. 

Erik smiled slightly. “Everything you see before you,” he said, gesturing grandly at the world outside, “will one day be yours, William. Yours and your brother's.”

“Whoa,” William breathed, holding his gaze, before turning to look out the window again, bright lights lighting the sky above the location of a Dazzler concert. 

“Whatwillbemine? AndwhydoIhavetosharewit _him?_ ” 

Erik turned, lips twitching to see the young boy now standing on the other side of him. The boy was the same height as William, had the same face, but his hair was silver and his eyes were green. 

“Hello, Thomas,” Erik said.

“What will be mine?” Thomas repeated, before leaning around Erik's legs to glare at his twin. “And why do I have to share with _him?_ ”

Erik gestured out the window at the city lit up beneath the darkening sky. “Everything you see before you will one day be yours. And you will share with William because he's your brother, and you are both heirs to the kingdom.” 

“Huh,” Thomas said, suddenly leaning on William's shoulder, leaning forward and scrutinizing the city through the glass. “All that boring stuff is supposed to be mine?” 

“And mine,” William pointed out. “We have to share, Tommy.” 

Thomas patted him on the shoulder. “You can have it all, Billy. I don't want it.” He started poking William in the side incessantly. “Hey Billy. Hey Billy. Billy Billy Billy Billy. Hey hey, you know what we should do? You know what we should do?” 

“What I want you to do is stop poking me,” William said, eyes glowing blue for a moment, and suddenly Thomas's finger could no longer reach his side, unable to pass an invisible wall a few inches away. 

“You're no _fuuuuun,_ ” Thomas whined, flopping down on a couch several feet away. “I just wanted to show you something cool! But if you're going to be all pissy like that then—AGH!” he yelled suddenly as Peter appeared in his usual silver and black outfit, throwing the boy with his hair and Wanda's eyes over his shoulder, grinning over at Erik and William.

“Is this little imp giving you trouble?” Peter asked, still grinning as Thomas kicked at him and demanded to be let down. 

“Tommy's just being Tommy,” William shrugged, though he was smiling slightly. “You know how he is.” 

“I resent that!” Thomas shouted, before raising his voice further to call, “Mama! Mama, Uncle Pete's manhandling me and Billy's making fun of me and Grandpa Erik is just standing there and not doing anything!” 

“Shut up, you,” Peter said, beginning to tickle the boy mercilessly, making Thomas shriek with laughter. “You shouldn't be complaining when you're having a good time! You're a little complainer, is what you are.” 

“No, no, stop,” Thomas shrieked between his giggles, writhing uselessly against Peter's superfast fingers. “I'll stop complaining, I promise!” 

“Peter,” Wanda said, amused, as she walked into the room, scarlet gown brushing the floor and long brown hair cascading down her back, green eyes twinkling. “Are you torturing my son?” 

“Tommy was being annoying, Mama,” William said, walking over to her and taking her hand, looking up at her earnestly. 

“Is that so?” she asked, amused. 

“He's lying!” Thomas cried, still laughing as Peter finally stopped tickling him and place him on his shoulders for him to play with the bunny ears attached to the headband that had somehow suddenly appeared on Peter's head. “I wasn't being annoying! He's a liar! I just wanted to show him something cool!” 

“You didn't have to poke me to tell me about it, though,” William said petulantly, clutching his mother's hand tighter. 

Erik watched the exchange, a smile on his lips. 

It had all been worth it, to create this world for his children and his grandchildren. All the pain and struggle had been worth it. The scars on his back, the numbers on his wrist, the blood on his hands. Even the haunted looks that sometimes showed in Wanda and Peter's eyes. 

Everything he'd had to do was worth it. Every sacrifice he'd had to make. He'd do it all again in a heartbeat. 

Anything to make sure his children and grandchildren, and all mutants, could live happily and freely, with humans knowing their place below them. 

_I'm sorry you refused to see, that, Charles,_ Erik thought, looking back out at the skyline, lit up with the powers of mutants that were frolicking in the open in the city. _I wish I could have made you see. I think you would have liked this world. A world where mutants don't have to hide._

_It's not like the humans are subjugated, Charles. Humans and mutants live peacefully, now that humans know their place and acknowledge us as their superiors._

He glanced back at his family to see William talking to Wanda excitedly while Thomas crept up behind him, holding a headband with cat ears and grinning mischievously. 

There was a distant boom from outside, and Erik turned to see that a glowing mutant had flown high up into the sky and shot light from themselves like fireworks. 

It was true that there were still rebel groups out there striving to overthrow the kingdom that he had created, rebel groups of humans and some allied mutants who somehow didn't realize that this world was so much better. 

They called him a totalitarian ruler. A dictator. Authoritarian. Tyrannical. 

They didn't understand. 

They believed in democracy, in the will of the people. Did they not realize that people, if left to their own devices, would almost always fall into greed and hostility? Did they not realize that the will of the people was corrupt, without a steady and firm hand to guide it? 

He ruled with an iron strictness and enforced his laws ruthlessly, yes, but he was not cruel. Perhaps he'd had to do some cruel things to secure his sovereignty over the world, but the ends justified the means, and as a ruler he was not cruel. 

The most efficient type of government was headed by a strict but benevolent overlord. Laws were easier created and enforced without the long, easily corruptible process of democracy getting in the way. 

Of course, such a government only worked as long as the ruler was strong and kind and kept the citizens safe and content. But Erik trusted his family to keep on the strong rule after his death. 

_I wish you'd understood, Charles_ , Erik thought, looking back at his family, a disgruntled William and a laughing Wanda now wearing headbands with cat ears while two grinning speedsters wore bunny ears and chased each other around the room. 

_I did some terrible things to secure this life for my family, and all mutants. But I did not conquer this world out of hatred._

_No, Charles, I conquered this world out of love._

Wanda walked over and took his hand, squeezing it, leaning her head against his shoulder and smiling up at him as he smiled back. 

They watched as William and Thomas started wrestling with Peter on the floor, animal-ear headbands discarded as they grabbed pillows off the couch to hit their uncle with, the three of them laughing, unburdened by pain or fear.

_I wish you'd understood, Charles._

_I didn't want to have to kill you._

_You left me no choice._

* * *

The body spasmed on the floor, thrashing against its restraints as the agonizing poison coursed through him. The sound waves vibrated by the mutant's screaming were too fast to be detected by human ear drums. 

The wolves in the forest surrounding the facility whined and pawed at their ears, while the mutant crouched among them who thought himself more wolf than man covered his ears with his hands and growled, claws reflexively sliding out of his skin. 

The mutant sniffed the air, before snarling at the scent of steel and antiseptic and mutant blood that dredged up memories of pain pain pain. 

He took a step towards where the scent and the screaming had come from, teeth bared, a battle between the animal and the man within him visible in his eyes. 

The wolves were antsy at the strange screams of pain, shifting restlessly, slowly backing away, making noises for the wolfish mutant to follow when he simply stood there. 

With a snarl of tooth and swipe of claw the animal won and the man retreated within his own mind, bleeding and raw and confused. 

The mutant turned and started running in the opposite direction from the screams of pain and the scent of painful memories, the wolves running beside him.

* * *

“So,” Stryker said, looking down at the boy as the twitching of his body slowed, the agony from the poison mitigating. “Will you comply yet? Or do you need another dose?” 

The mutant opened its dark eyes, glaring defiantly, bloodied lips pulling apart in a smirk as he rasped, “If you… think you can break me, Stryker... then man, you're an idiot.” 

Stryker regarded him for several moments.

“You leave us no choice,” he said, turning to face the doctors standing behind him. “Wipe his brain. If he won't comply willingly with pain incentives, then we'll make it so he's completely under our control.” 

Horror flashed across the mutant's face, but it was schooled into a smirking sneer before Stryker turned back around. 

“You really think… that you can control me?” the mutant scoffed, flicking his head the slight amount the neck restraint allowed him to flick silver hair out of his mouth. “Not even _telepaths_ can do that.” 

Stryker smiled at him, thinly. “We don't need telepaths to control you. We don't need to get inside your head, after all. All we have to do is make sure you follow orders. We will break you yet.” 

The horror flashed across the mutant's face again, but this time it was slower in being wiped away.

“I'd like to see you try,” the mutant snarled. 

“Oh believe me,” Stryker said, and it was his turn to smirk. “We will. We've broken stronger than you.”

“But have you broken faster?” the mutant countered, trying desperately to pull his own smirk back onto his face. 

“No,” Stryker said. “But it doesn't matter how fast you are if you can't run.” 

The truth of that sentence hit the mutant like a punch in the gut.

* * *

The city was being pulled apart, and Quicksilver was running through the chaos, grabbing civilians and taking them miles away, outside the destruction zone, before running back to grab more civilians. 

But there were _so many people—hundreds of thousands of people_ —and the destruction caused by Jean Grey—the Phoenix—was > _so absolute_ , and he _couldn't save everyone_. He could only stare helplessly as people were torn apart down to their very atoms, flaking away like leaves and crumbling away like dust. 

The sky was darker, filled with dark, broiling clouds that reflected the right light of Jean Grey's flames everywhere. 

“Thisiscrazy!” Quicksilver yelled, coming to a standstill in front of his sister, who was standing there watching the Phoenix hovering above the center of the city, shrieking and burning in some kind of cosmic fury. “Idon'tknowwhattodo! I'vesavedeveryoneIcouldwhatelsecanIdo?!” 

“Take me up there,” the Scarlet Witch said, nodding to the skyscraper closest to the Phoenix. 

“WhattheshitnoI'mnottakingyoutheretogetkilled!” Quicksilver exclaimed, dark eyes panicked behind his goggles. 

“I won't get killed,” the Scarlet Witch said, turning to him with calm, green eyes. “Trust me.” 

Quicksilver stared at her for a second—a second that was much, much longer to him—and then said, “Alright. I trust you, sis.” 

One hand on her waist, the other on the back of her head, and then he ran through the chaos, using flying debris like a staircase, jumping onto the side of the skyscraper and running up its vertical surface, setting his sister down on top, so close to the Phoenix he could start to feel his skin peeling away. 

He fell to his knees with a cry, thinking for sure that he was going to disintegrate like all those other people he couldn't save, when there was a red-gloved hand on his shoulder, a scarlet glow surrounding him and keeping him from falling apart. 

He could only watch as his sister walked confidently towards the cosmic entity that was Jean Grey. Wanda's auburn hair fluttered fiercely, but other than that she was untouched, arms raising as she floated into the air to stare the flaming Jean straight in the face. 

Even from where he was kneeling on the skyscraper roof, Peter could see the terrible expression of rage on Jean's face.

The voice that emitted from the Phoenix was eerie, echoing. _“You think you can save me?”_

“No,” Wanda said, reaching out to place a hand on Jean's cheek. “I think I can destroy you.” 

The Phoenix screamed.

* * *

“So,” Stryker said, looking down at the boy as the twitching of his body slowed, the agony from the poison mitigating. “Will you comply yet? Or do you need another dose?” 

The mutant opened its dark eyes, glaring defiantly, bloodied lips pulling apart in a smirk as he rasped, “If you think… you can break me… Stryker... then you're an idiot.” 

Stryker regarded him for several moments. 

“Perhaps you just need some motivation to cooperate,” he said, smiling meanly, eyes glinting. “You have a sister, Wanda, correct? Maybe we should pay her a little visit. See how she enjoys being tortured.” 

Peter's dark eyes widened, and then he burst out laughing. “Go after her, I dare you,” he gasped, grinning, tears of mirth turning a brick red from the dried blood on his cheeks. “She'll wipe the floor of the universe with your asses.”

* * *

Aside from Apocalypse, Jean Grey was the most powerful mutant Charles Xavier had ever encountered. 

Until he'd encountered Wanda Maximoff. 

She had the ability to affect probabilities—and thus, the future. And she was a nexus for chaos in its purest form—chaos energy. Charles had never seen Hank so terrified as when he showed him the energy readings on Wanda's powers. 

“Charles,” Hank had said, leaning closer, lowering his voice. “Wanda, if she chooses, has the very power to alter _reality itself_. Jean could convince you that you're a superstar, change your reality by changing what's in your brain, but Wanda could _change reality around you_ to _make you_ a superstar.” 

“Duly noted,” Charles said, clenching his eyes shut and rubbing the bridge of his nose, taking a deep breath, before opening his eyes again and looking at the consternated scientist. “I will keep an eye on her. Thank you, Hank.” 

It was fortunate Wanda was more stable than Jean, Charles thought now, as he looked down at the unconscious redhead in in the arms of the taller, auburn-haired girl in the distinct scarlet X-Men suit, followed close behind by her brother in one of black and silver. 

“Jean!” Scott cried, running over, covered in soot and panting. “Jean! Is she okay?!” 

“She will be,” Wanda said, handing the unconscious telepath to Scott, before walking over to Charles. 

“I can fix it,” she said. 

Charles swallowed, looking up at her carefully. “Fix what?” 

“All of it,” Wanda said, reaching out to brush a red-gloved hand to his cheek. 

Charles gasped, eyes blowing wide as sensation rushed back into his legs. He could barely breath. His dared to try to wiggle his toes, heart jumping in his chest when they moved. 

“Stand up,” Wanda said. 

Slowly, carefully, Charles stood, only to find he needn't have been so cautious. His legs worked like they'd never been paralyzed in the first place. 

His first thought was that it was a trick, somehow. But then he remembered what Hank had said, and realized that, no, it wasn't a trick. 

She'd just given him his legs back, and he could still hear the buzz of the other X-Men's minds. 

“Wanda...” he said, eyes stinging, pressing a hand against his face. 

“I can fix all of it,” Wanda said, gesturing to the destroyed city around them. “I can make it so it never happened.” 

“You can't do that, Wanda,” Charles said softly, hand leaving his face as he looked at her. “I don't doubt that you have the power to do so, but you shouldn't. The ramifications of altering reality to such a large extent does not bear thinking about.” 

Wanda looked at him for several moments, before turning to her brother, who looked like he was out on his feet. 

“Pete,” she whispered, placing her hands on the side of his face, rubbing her thumbs gently over the cracked skin of his cheeks that healed quickly at her touch. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Peter rasped quietly, his eyes unfocused, his entire body swaying slightly. “Totally peachy.” 

He slumped forward, head on her shoulder, and she wrapped her arms around him, rubbing his back, humming some kind of gentle, lullaby-sounding tune.

Slowly the other X-Men all made their way over, haggard, confused, relieved, exhausted, in pain. Nobody noticed, at first, that Charles was standing on his feet and walking as he checked up on each of them, not in his riding his wheel chair, until Jubilee's eyes suddenly widened as she blurted, “Professor, _how are you walking?_ ” 

And then they were all looking at him, except for Scott and Jean and Wanda and Peter, and Charles found himself winking and scraping a smile onto his face to say, “I can't tell you that: it's top secret. And you wouldn't remember when you're all this dead-tired, anyway. What say you we head back to the mansion?” 

They piled stiffly and sluggishly into the Blackbird, too exhausted to pursue the point further, except for Hank, who had a look in his eyes that said that he could guess exactly what happened. 

_Was it Wanda?_ he asked without speaking. 

_Yes_ , Charles said, and that was all he said, instead walking through the plain and making sure all the tired and exhausted X-Men had remembered to put on their seatbelts. 

Neither Wanda nor Peter were wearing seatbelts, sitting next to each other, the speedster curled in his sister's embrace, her red-gloved hands rubbing through his silver hair, Peter weaving a quarter lightning-fast through his fingers even in his exhausted state, and Charles felt a great weight on his shoulders as he looked at them, a great weariness in his bones, before turning and walking back to take the copilot seat next to Hank, not having said anything about it. 

He didn't miss the irony that Erik had taken away his legs, and Erik's daughter had given them back. 

But for someone who had never been scared of Erik, he was inexplicably terrified of Erik's children.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **[EDIT 9/25/16:]** The German has been edited. A huge thanks to  Respectable for fixing it!
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> **Translations:**
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>  _Du… du bist meine Mutter?_ \- You... you are my mother?
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>  _Ja_ \- Yes
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>  _Das ist toll!_ \- That is awesome!
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>  _Warum?_ \- Why?
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>  _Ihr seid süß!_ \- You [plural] are cute!
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>  _Ihr dankt mir später!_ \- You [plural] will thank me later!
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>  _Hallo_ \- Hello
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>  _Weißt du, wo mein Sohn ist?_ \- Do you know where my son is?
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>  _Es tut mir leid, das weiß ich nicht_ \- I'm sorry, I don't know.
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> * * *
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> **If anyone is confused about why I wrote this story in the way I did and was wondering why I didn't just put everything in order, this is why (but you can always just skip this part, too):**
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>  
> 
> I wrote the first chapter in such a way because I was getting so frustrated trying to organize things, and finally I was just like, Fuck it. I don't need to organize anything, I just need to get all these ideas out of my head. So I just wrote things as they came to me. I honestly thought that the story would be one of my weird ones that hardly anybody read and even fewer liked, so I was absolutely blown away by the amount of response I got, and how many people said they actually really liked the disjointed style. So that's another reason why I'm continuing it for the second chapter, and pushing it further. 
> 
> I enjoy playing with style and formatting, and I think, for some readers, it's probably a refreshing change because it's so different from what people normally write. Sometimes a difference can feel like a breath of fresh air, or just make people think in a way they wouldn't otherwise. What's the point of writing, if not to make people think? And the story is much more memorable in this way, whether you love it or hate it.
> 
> I do not think confusion is necessarily a bad thing. And I really hate writing the same things as what everybody else is writing. Call it ego, maybe, but I like to try to do things differently. 
> 
> So maybe, for the first chapter, it was just the easiest way to write it. But for this second chapter, it's very much a conscious choice. It's the way the story is in my head, and it's the way I want it to be read, because I want you all to experience it in the same flow. Especially since Quicksilver, being a speedster, has such a warped sense of the flow of time, and his sister, Wanda, is a reality-warper, which in itself, I imagine, creates a very unsure sense of what reality truly is. I want this story to speed and stop and skip and warp and tremble, and I want you all to feel that when you read it. I feel it better represents the characters than a clear continuity would. 
> 
> I do not want to hand you guys an assembled puzzle. I want to give you the pieces, and have you assemble it yourselves. I want you to work for your understanding. Which also has the bonus that, since I'm not giving you everything, there are all these blank spaces and blurred edges for you to fill in and straighten out. So through composing your own understanding of the story, you make the story your own. You all will interpret the events differently, because you'll interpret them as _you_ want them to be interpreted, not as _I_ want you to. So you all will, in a way, be reading very different stories. It allows for more personalization.
> 
> I love puzzles. All my favorite stories are the ones that make me wonder, that make me extrapolate events, try to fit things together. I love that. So that's what I'm trying to make you all do with this story.
> 
> * * *


	3. Timewarp pt.II

* * *

**Timewarp (Sweet Dreams Are Made Of This ((don't) Wake Me Up (you dare)))**  
**pt.II**

* * *

Soft footsteps pattered like raindrops down the hallway.

Small, pale hands turned a doorknob, and the small body shivered at the cool touch of the metal, cracking the door open just barely enough to slip through into the deep darkness of the room, the door then pressing closed.

The room was completely dark, but it didn't matter that the boy couldn't see anything. He had the path to his sister's bed memorized, knew just how to slip under the covers without letting the cold in and the warmth out. 

His sister's warm body was familiar, too, they way she moved to curl around him when he pressed against her, burying his wet face in long, soft hair. 

“What was your nightmare about this time, Pie?” she murmured, an arm around him, pulling him closer. 

“I… I was _trapped_ , sis,” he whispered, shivering despite the warmth he was now enveloped in. For some reason his bed was always cold, no matter how many blankets he piled on top of himself. “Stuck in one place for a very long time, not awake and yet not sleeping… it was dark and cold and I couldn't _move_ …” 

A sob wracked his chest, got caught in his throat, but he couldn't cry cold tears, not again, not now when he was with Wanda who was so warm. Even her tears, when she cried, were warm. His tears were always cold. 

“It's okay,” Wanda murmured, lips pressing against his forehead. “You're safe now. You're awake now, and soon you'll be asleep, and I'll keep you from getting any more nightmares, okay?” 

He was silent for a few minutes, teeth worrying at his lip till he tasted blood. 

“What is it, Pie?” Wanda said, thumb brushing through his hair, against his forehead. 

“Am I a monster, Wanda?” he asked, so quiet he was almost certain she couldn't have heard it. 

She shifted, turning her face to look at him, and he could barely make out her features, blurred in darkness. “Of course not,” she said. “Why would you think that?” 

“Because my hair his weird,” he murmured, hiding his face against her neck. 

“Your hair is beautiful,” Wanda told him, voice quiet but vehement. “And I'll punch anyone who says different.” 

He was quiet.

“And besides,” Wanda continued softly, “it's not what's on the outside that makes anyone a monster, it's what's on the inside. And you're a good person, Pie, even if you steal my stuff sometimes. But I forgive you for that.”

His teeth were drawing blood from his lower lip again. 

“Is there something else?” Wanda prodded softly, hand brushing through silver hair that only she thought beautiful. 

“If I'm not a monster, then why do people look at me like I am one?” he asked, hands fisting in her pajama shirt. “They—they look at me, like I'm—I think they hate me, Wanda.” 

“If they hate you, then they're idiots,” Wanda told him. “You don't need them. You have me.” She hugged him closer, murmuring, “You're _wunderbar_ , Pie. I couldn't ask for a better brother, twin, or friend.” 

He was quiet for several moments. “You too, Wanda,” he said finally, burying his nose in her hair. 

“I know,” she said softly. 

She yawned, then. “You good to sleep now, Pie?”

“Ja,” he murmured, sighing against the skin of her neck. “Thank you… for…” 

He was asleep before he could finish the sentence. 

Fingers brushed through his hair, a soft exhalation warming his ear. “Always, Pie. Always.”

* * *

It was dark, and they'd been walking all day, and Wanda was tired and having trouble making out the ground where she was stepping. 

All she could see, really, aside from the dark sky above that looked black until you looked at where it met the treeline and saw that the _trees_ were true black and the sky was just navy blue, was the swash of silver hair that marked her brother's position a few feet in front of her. 

They'd been walking all day, but Pietro was tireless. Wanda figured he could just keep going and going and going and never stop. 

Wand figured he could just keep going and going and going and nobody would be able to catch up, not even her. 

She was heavy hearted, and she felt so cold. 

“'Tro,” she gasped as she stumbled and pitched forward, only to find him there, catching her, arms around her waist and back as she moved her arms around his neck and buried her face in the spot where neck melded into shoulder. 

“Are you okay, Wanda?” he asked softly, rubbing her back in gentle circles. 

“It's dark and we've been walking all day,” she whispered against his skin. “Can we rest?” 

“Of course,” he said, pulling away but linking one arm with hers, leading her off the road into the trees. “I'm sorry I didn't think to stop sooner. I just really wanted to get away and keep moving away, I guess.”

She stumbled, but he held her up. She wondered how it was he could see anything. 

“'Tro,” she said, shivering. 

“Here,” he said, guiding her to sit on rock in small clearing. “I'll make a fire.” 

He was gone, and she closed her eyes. 

When she opened them, she could barely make out his form crouched a little ways in front of her, using a hand-drill that was already creating a small pile of ash with tiny, glowing-orange coals.

A small gust of wind, and then there was a small teepee of sticks around the coals, which was catching on the dried grass inside and growing into small flames, flickering bright and orange, tongues lapping at the sticks, catching on them like a fast and virulent mold. 

More gusts of wind, and more sticks, larger sticks, and soon there was a good-sized campfire, and Wanda moved closer to it, holding out her hands to the warmth, Pietro pressing close next to her. 

They were silent for several minutes, watching the flames dance. 

Pietro shivered, pressing closer to her and the fire. The reflection of the orange tongues flickered on the surface of his eyes, irises and pupils a dark backdrop behind them. 

Wanda closed her eyes and leaned against him, pulling his arm further around her shoulders. 

“Let's leave this awful place,” she murmured. “I'm tired of feeling like a monster, tired of watching you believe you're a monster.”

“I want to go to America,” he said, “where they don't burn down each other's houses and they don't look _down_ on the strange. They even have that man who is a spider on _television_.” 

She opened her eyes, watching his face illuminated in the orange firelight, silver hair glinting, harsh shadows in the cracks of tightened lips, eyes bright and dark and desperate. “They say you can be free in America. They say—”

She raised a hand, pressing a finger to his lips. His eyes turned to her, questioning. 

He looked so perfect in the firelight. 

“Bit your tongue, don't say anything,” she murmured. “Close your eyes. Take it slow. We'll find a new place to go. This will all be over soon. So just hush, okay?” 

He closed his eyes, leaning forward so his forehead rested against hers, their breaths mingling, hers slow and warm, his quick and cold. She closed her eyes, hand against his face, thumb brushing over the chilled skin of his cheek. 

“I don't care where we go,” she murmured. “I just want you with me.” 

“I will be,” he promised, his breath ghosting cold over her lips. “Always.”

* * *

“You,” Hank said, pointing a pen at Peter when he looked up from computer screen, “are amazing.” 

“Yeah yeah,” Peter said, sitting on the examination table with one leg crossed on his other knee, examining his fingernails. “Tell me something I didn't know.” 

“Your body is perfectly adapted to the rigors of high-speed running,” Hank said, enthusiasm and excitement all over his face as he glanced back at the data on his screen, gesturing. “Your cardiovascular and respiratory systems are many times more efficient than those of a normal human being, and not only is your metabolism over fifteen times faster than that of normal humans, but you also metabolize about ninety-five percent of the caloric energy content of foodstuffs. Normal humans metabolize about twenty-five percent—the rest goes into creating heat. Which explains your lower body temperature, since only five percent of the caloric energy content you consume is converted to eat, as opposed to the seventy-five percent for normal humans—”

Peter's head had snapped up, bored expression gone. “So _that's_ why I'm always cold all the time?!” 

“Yeah, that's why,” Hank said, grabbing a notepad and beginning to sketch something down. “I think, if I design your X-Men suit with heat-reflective thin MPET film sheeting lining the inside, then it will reduce the heat loss in your body and help keep you warmer so you don't have to be constantly moving just to keep your body heat up.” 

“Really?” Peter asked, grinning and zipping over to look over Hank's shoulder at what he was sketching. “That would be awesome!”

“I'll design you some knew goggles, too,” Hank continued, focused on his work, “even though technically you don't really need them, since your lachrymose is more viscous than normal, thus preventing rapid evaporation and replenishment of surface fluids on your eyeballs under the influence of high wind velocity from occluding your vision. I can see why it probably still helps to have the goggles, though, so you don't get bugs or dust in your eyes . But I'll design you some goggles with transparent rims so your peripheral vision isn't obstructed by black plastic from your current goggles. Those are just swim goggles, aren't they?” 

“Yeah,” Peter said, zipping around to the other side of Hank's desk, elbows resting on the table as he leaned forward. “They're lightweight and airtight. And it's not like there are many other options.” 

“I'll make you better ones,” Hank said distractedly. “I also need to design you shoes that you can run in for hundreds of thousands of miles without burning through the rubber.” 

Peter zipped back to the other side of the table, grinning and clapping Hank on the shoulder. “You're the best, Hank!” 

“And I need to design you a light armor,” Hank continued, brow crinkled in thought as he sketched. “Your body is capable of resisting tremendous impact forces that could easily crush and kill a human without suffering any serious external or internal injuries, but you can still be harmed by sharp objects, or even bullets if you don't see them for whatever reason, so I need to make sure you have some protection against that. But you still have to be able to run with ease, and the armor needs to be flexible enough to match your enhanced flexibility and agility—”

“Aaaand he's lost in Science Land,” Peter remarked, crossing his arms and lifting a silver eyebrow at the oblivious scientist. He was grinning, though. “I guess I'll just be off then, Hank.”

He didn't even zip out of the room, simply strolling away, hands in the pockets of his jeans.

Hank was too caught up in his designing to notice, still talking to himself.

* * *

Erik had to stay away from Peter. It was the only way to protect him. 

“Promise me you'll protect him,” Erik had asked of Charles, before he left. “Please. Protect him for me.” _Protect him from me._

Charles had looked at him. “Erik...” he'd sighed, running a hand over his bald head. “Peter is an adult, and I'm not in charge of him. I can't tell him what to do.” 

“I know that, Charles,” Erik had growled. “I just want you to protect him.” 

Charles had sighed, again, looking up at him. “Erik,” he'd said, “you know I'll do my very best for him.”

“That's all I ask,” Erik had said, turning to leave. 

“You're his father, Erik,” Charles had called after him. “Have you even thought about staying? About being there for your son?” 

Erik had paused, hand on the door frame. “I can't do that, Charles. I'd just be putting him in danger if I stayed.” 

“You don't know that, Erik,” Charles had said, gently. 

“Yes, Charles,” Erik had said, voice hard, tone final, “I do.” He'd stepped out the door, not looking back. “Goodbye, old friend.”

* * *

It kept him up at night, sometimes. 

Erik would lie awake, staring up at the night-shrouded ceiling of wherever he was staying, thinking about Peter. Wondering how he was doing. If he was getting along with Charles and his league. If he liked it there. How he felt about him being his father. If he wanted him to be his father. Why he'd taken on Apocalypse like he had. 

Sometimes, though, it was just little things. What was Peter's favorite color? What was his favorite food? His favorite music? What did his room look like? What did he have nightmares about? Who did he go to for comfort? What had he looked like as a young boy? How had people treated him for his silver hair?

Little things. 

Sometimes the urge to see Peter, to see how he was doing, was so strong that Erik had to clench the doorframe and remind himself what happened to Nina. What happened to his wife. What happened to his parents. What happened to Charles. 

He saw Peter, screaming in pain like he'd screamed when Apocalypse had broken his leg, but this time because of him. Because he'd gotten too close to him. 

Erik couldn't do that to his son. 

His fingers would ease from the doorframe, the metal that had been rattling in the room calming down, and he would turn and go back to his plans to save the mutant race. 

Only once mutants were safe—once they'd taken their rightful place in the world, were no longer hiding, beaten down, discriminated against, used and abused for what they were—only then could Erik face Peter as his father. 

Only once mutants were free.

* * *

Angel gave a triumphant grin as he wrenched himself out of the last restraint, flapping his wings slightly, reveling in the freedom of the movement.

Now he just needed to get out of this shithole. 

He strode over to the door, slashing it down with his wings, before kicking it down and stepping out into the hallway.

The corridor was empty, and no alarms were going off.

He barely had a moment to think that there was something off about that when something hit him in the chest and he was throw back against the wall, trying to gasp air back into his lungs and wondering what had just happened. 

A figure stood in front of him. Black suit, black goggles, black mask over the lower half of his face, silver hair settling into place as if after a gust of wind. 

Angel pushed himself away from the wall, letting a smirk crack his lips. “Und wer bist du?” he asked, cocking his head to the side, fists readied, metal wings flared. 

The figure disappeared. 

Angel blinked. 

And then he was hit hard in the side of the jaw, and everything went black.

* * *

Humans rarely understood the pack of the wild.

The wolves did not stay together out of fear. They stayed because they wanted to.

They stayed for love.

There was enough game there for the three sons to choose to stay with Red Streak and Grey Scar. They were much needed. With the endless winter encroaching into spring, there was much work to do, and a new generation to feed.

It was rare for a wolf family to accept one not of their blood. But rare is not never. And across the months, Grey Scar and Red Streak had come to love the two-legged wolf. 

With their pups, it was easier. They instantly adored the one whose two-thumbed magic brought entire prey to their eager mouths. 

He completed their family. 

Despite the winter dying the spring white, the hunting was good. The pack was close. There was nothing more to want.

And as much as the wolfish man could hope for anything, he hoped that all that would change… was _nothing._

But something was changing.

The Human Place was to be avoided, that was undisputed. The wolves gave never went within a five-mile radius. There was no game there to be had, anyway. 

But the strange screaming was becoming more and more common, piercing their ears, making their hair stand on end. 

The wolves started giving the Human Place an even wider berth. Screams, of any species, meant pain. Pain meant meant danger. Danger was to be avoided. 

But while the wolves ran away from the screaming, the wolfish man found himself inexplicably with the urge to run towards it. An urge that went against all his primal instincts of survival. 

The strange urge gave the wolfish man a sense of deja vu, not that the wolfish man knew such a term. All he knew was that the screaming begged him to run towards it, begged him to put an end to it. An end to the screaming. Whether by putting the pain creature out of its misery, or by putting an end to whatever was putting the creature in pain. 

The wolfish man stood in the snow, naked except for a fur wrapped around his hips to cover his more sensitive areas, unbothered by the cold. He looked towards the direction of the screaming, then at his pack.

Grey Scar and Red Streak were growling in discomfort and backing away, their sons already scampering in that direction, looking over their shoulders at them, yipping in urgency. Desperate to get farther away from the danger. 

They called to the wolfish man, and slowly he followed, breaking into a run to keep up with his pack. 

He had the strange sensation that he'd lost something. That once, long ago, he would have run towards the screaming without hesitation, that he would have done something about it. 

The feeling wouldn't leave him, and one day he slipped away from the pack, wiping off the blood that covered him from their recent hunt, running in the direction they wouldn't, till he could hunker down on the snowy ridge overlooking the Human Place.

There was no more screaming, but the Human Place's scent of metal and blood and antiseptic and fear sent up alarms in the wolfish man's head, making him tense and bare his teeth as images flashed through his head, images of needles and scalpels and doctors in white masks, water and glass around him and wires in him, burning, scalding pain as metal was pumped into his bones; not that he remembered the words for any of it. 

Was that why the creature had been screaming? 

The wolfish man was in pain himself, then, a pressure building up in his skull, flashes of orange hair and fanged teeth.

_“You're an animal, Jimmy. You can't fight what you are.”_

The wolfish man ran away from the Human Place. Away from the memories, the pressure in his head. Away from where the screaming had stopped. 

But the screaming in the wolfish man's head had only just started.

* * *

“Hey, bub,” Peter said, suddenly appearing next to where Logan was sitting at the bar, leaning against the counter and flicking at the condensation on the beer bottle in Logan's hand. “Bub bub bub bub. Why do you say that, man? It's like you're trying to blow a bubble but it pops too early. Like boiling water or something. Or like you're trying to say 'bud' with a broken nose. Is it some kind of Canadian slang thing? Huh? What is it, bub?” 

Logan sighed, taking another swig of his beer. He'd need it, to deal with Peter.

“What do you want, kid?” he grunted. 

“Kid?” Peter asked, swinging himself onto the stool next to other mutant. “Who's a kid here? I'm older than twenty-one, you know. See this hair?” he held up a silver lock. “I'm old, man. Not an old man, not like you—'cause you're _really_ old—but I'm old.” 

With that, he snapped a hand out and snatched Logan's beer, downing it in a second, before setting it back on the counter.

“Ugh, why do you drink this shit?” Peter said, making a face and then examining the beer bottle.

Logan growled at him, glaring. “Kid...” he said warningly. 

“It's disgusting,” Peter continued, completely ignoring and disregarding the warning. “So bitter. It tastes like poison.” He tipped the bottle over, the last drop of dark beer falling onto the counter. “I like the fruity drinks. If you're gonna get buzzed, you might as well have a sweet time of it, you know?” 

Logan sighed, clenching his eyes shut and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Do not stab the kid,” he muttered under his breath. “Do not stab the kid...” 

“Like you could stab me even if you tried,” Peter said, spinning around on the stool so his back was to the counter, setting his elbows there and leaning back, letting his head fall to the side as he considered the older mutant. “So, this is your little hideaway, huh? I figured you'd be at a bar somewhere, but I'm surprised it's one this nice. Not that this is a very nice bar, per say, but I'd kinda figured you'd be in one of those places where bar fights happen all the time and nobody asks any questions.” 

He glanced around the space, gesturing flippantly. “This bar looks like bar fights happen only about once a week, and if you came in covered in blood people would ask if you had the feds or a mob boss or something after you and to get out because they don't want no trouble with the law or the mob boss people here.”

“What,” Logan growled out, gritting his teeth as he glared at the speedster. “Do. You. Want?”

“Me?” Peter asked, dark eyes widening as he pressed a hand to his chest. “I don't want anything.” He relaxed back against the counter, looking up at the ceiling thoughtfully. “Well, maybe I do want something—namely my sister to stop dating useless assholes, because that Simon guy was driving me nuts, and this Jonas guy is killing me with boredom—but you can't do anything about that.” 

His eyes lit up as he turned to the Wolverine. “Oh wait! You can! Hey, hey Wolvie, can you scare the shit out of my sister's boyfriend?” 

“She can scare the shit out of her own boyfriend, if she feels the need ta,” Logan growled. “She's certainly capable of it.” 

“My sister could scare the shit out of Apocalypse,” Peter snorted. “But she needs someone to scare the shit out of her boyfriends for her 'cause she's too nice to them when she likes them, and she has terrible taste in men, and if I do it then she'll know it's me and she'll hex me out of the house.” 

“Why,” Logan snarled, patience thinning. “Are. You. _Here?!_ ” 

“Whoa, dude, chill out,” Peter said, holding up his hands placatingly, looming amused rather than scared. “I'm only here because the Prof asked me to.” 

“Chuck?” Logan asked, raising a bushy eyebrow. “What does he want?”

Under his breath, Peter quickly muttered, “How much wood could a wood chuck chuck if a wood chuck could chuck wood? He would chuck all the wood that a wood chuck could if a wood chuck could chuck wood!” 

_“Peter_ ,” Logan snapped, snatching back the speedster's attention. “What does Chuck want?” 

“He wants you back at the mansion,” Peter said, shrugging, spinning back around to face the counter, beginning to spin the empty beer bottle. “Something about something or other that he wanted to talk to you about, I wasn't really paying attention, but it was probably something really important.” 

The heels of Logan's hands pressed against his closed eyes. “For fuck's sake, kid.” 

“Hey,” Peter said, not looking up from the bottle that he was spinning. “Can I ride on the back of your motorcycle?” 

“No,” Logan said, standing and making his way to the door. “You can walk.” 

“I don't walk,” Peter reminded him, zipping next to him, bottle still spinning on the counter.

“Or run,” Logan amended, straddling his motorcycle, kickstarting it and setting it into gear. “Whatever.” 

“I'll race you,” Peter said, moving his goggles from his hair back over his eyes, smiling smugly. “Loser pays for drinks next time we go out.”

Then silver-haired kid was gone, and Logan sighed, guiding his motorcycle onto the street, gunning it once he hit the highway, faster than was safe but nowhere near as fast as the speedster. 

He'd be paying for drinks whether he wanted to or not. It's not like it would do any good if he refused—Peter would just steal his wallet.

* * *

Erik, Wanda, and Peter sat at the dining table, staring at each other, untouched plates of spaghetti in front of them.

Wanda and Peter watched Erik expectantly, intently, and Erik tried not to shift under their gazes. He cleared his throat, but he still didn't say anything.

Slowly, very slowly, Peter picked up his fork, twirled it in the noodles, and moved it slowly through the air to his slowly opening mouth, slowly sticking the fork in, slowly closing his mouth, slowly pulling the fork out from between closed lips, slowly chewing, noodles slowly dragging over his chin and covering it in tomato sauce, his gaze on Erik the entire time. 

Erik watched him with an expression of consternation. Wanda turned her gaze from Erik to her brother to see what her dad was staring at. 

Slowly the noodles disappeared into Peter's mouth, leaving his chin red, and slowly he swallowed, still staring across the table, slowly moving his fork back down to the noodles on his plate, beginning to repeat the entire process.

Just was he'd slowly pulled the fork out of his mouth again, noodles draped over his sauce-covered chin, Wanda burst out laughing.

And then Peter burst out laughing, noodles erupting from his mouth, which made Wanda laugh harder, which made made him laugh harder. 

Erik watched the entire thing in confusion. 

When they finally stopped laughing, gasping and clutching their aching sides, Wanda slowly grabbed her cup, slowly bringing it to her lips and slowly drinking, gaze steady on the perplexed Erik. 

Peter burst out laughing again, which made Wanda burst out laughing, water snorting out her nose, which made Peter laugh harder, which made her laugh so hard she spilled her water cup all over herself as she coughed from the water that got into her airway, which made Peter laugh harder still. 

“What,” Erik deadpanned. “Was that.” 

Wanda and Peter laughed so hard they fell out of their chairs, and Erik was left feeling completely out of his depth.

* * *

“Alright!” Peter said, hands on his hips as he looked at the large class of students in front of him. “Wolverine's absent today, so I'm going to be your substitute teacher for P.E. today.” 

There was a chorus of groans.

“Wrong reaction!” Peter said, pointing at them accusingly. “Now, on the count of three, I want you all the cheer as loud as you can in excitement. Are you ready?”

There was more groaning, which Peter ignored. 

“One,” Peter counted. “Two. Three!” 

“Yaaaaaaaaaay,” the students cheered, halfhearted and sarcastic.

“That was pathetic,” Peter told them, crossing his arms and narrowing his eyes. “As punishment, you will have to run ten laps around the track.” 

That got a very loud chorus of objections. 

Peter grinned. “There you go! That's much better! See, you're already more awake! Now go run those ten laps. I'll even run them with you!”

* * *

Ten laps later, the students collapsed to the ground, sweating and gasping for breath.

“What?” Peter asked, looking down at all them from where he was still standing. “You guys tired or something? You snails weren't even running fast!” 

“Shut up, Pietro,” Scott panted, throwing an arm over his visor. “Not all of us have boundless amounts of energy and can run at speeds of up to Mach some-crazy-large-number.” 

“Yeah, too bad for you,” Peter said, grinning. “But P.E. isn't over yet, kids!” 

The students groaned loudly. Bobby pretended to sob as he buried his face in his arms. 

“Jean,” Scott muttered to the telepath lying panting next to him, “can't you just, I don't know, use your telekenesis to throw him in a lake or something? Preferably one hundreds of miles away?” 

“It wouldn't do anything,” Jean muttered back, staring up at the sky as she lay on her back. “He'd be back in seconds.” 

Scott groaned. 

“Come on, guys,” Peter said, walking among them and prodding them with his feet. “Get up! You're not done yet! You're all going to do the Time Warp, whether you want to or not!” 

Jubilee pushed herself up on her elbows, looking at him disbelievingly. “Really,” she said flatly. “You're going to make us do the Time Warp? From the Rocky Horror Picture Show?” 

“Dancing is great exercise,” he told her, straight-faced. He disappeared, returning with a boombox on his shoulder, hitting the Play button, beginning to sing along, making dramatic facial expressions and gesturing with his free arm. “It's astounding. Time is fleeting. Madness takes it's toll… but listen closely… not for very much longer… I've got to keep control.”

The students started sitting up, staring at him in disbelief as he sang along.  
“I remember doing the Time Warp!” Peter sang, setting the boombox down on a nearby picnic table, starting to dance around. “Drinking those moments when, the blackness would hit me! And the void would be calling! Let's do the Time Warp again!”

He zipped around, picking people up and setting them on their feet. “Let's do the Time Warp again!” 

“You suck,” Scott groaned as he was pulled to his feet. 

“It's just a jump to the left!” Peter sang, jumping to the left, hands over his head, shimmying down. “And then a step to the right!” He stepped out to the right four times. “With your hand on your hips!” He moved his arms over his head again, then placed his hands on his hips.

Sighing, the students started halfheartedly dancing along, knowing he'd make them run more laps if they didn't. 

“You bring your knees in tight!” Peter sang along with song, bringing his knees together. “But it's the pelvic thrust!” He started thrusting his hips obscenely, before moving his hips around in a circle. “They really drive you insane!” 

Then he jumped to the right, moving his arms over his head to hold them out beside him, elbows slightly bent. “Let's do the Time Warp again!” Then he did the same while jumping to the left, before stepping to the right four times, moving his arms in and out from his body on each step. “Let's do the Time Warp again!” 

He paused his singing to yell, “Free-style it!” and beginning to do some kind of weird dancing that involved a lot of jumping around and striking weird poses. 

Some of the students started to actually get into it, dancing crazily and laughing, while others just shifted from one foot to the other, up till Peter zipped over and grabbed their hands, making them dance crazily with him for a few moments before moving on to someone else.

He was singing and dancing so enthusiastically that it was oddly contagious. 

When the chorus came back on, he zipped to where he could stand in front of all of them so they could all follow along with his movements. 

“I can't believe we're doing this,” Scott muttered to Jean, who was dancing next to him. 

Jean shrugged, following Peter's movements and stepping to the right four times. “Just be grateful he's not making us run any more laps.”

* * *

After he dismissed the P.E. class, Peter ran over to Scott, throwing an arm around his shoulders.

“You, Scott,” he said, patting the teen on the arm, “suck at pelvic thrusts. You should ask Jean to teach you.” He turned his head to whisper in Scott's ear: “She's really good.” 

He pulled away, sending Jean a wink and then zipping off, leaving Scott spluttering, face turning nearly as red as the lens of his rosequartz glasses. 

Jean just rolled her eyes, looking like she was maybe trying not to smile.

* * *

Scott, Bobby, and Peter were sitting on the couch, playing a video game. 

Peter was mashing the buttons violently, growing more and more frustrated as his character failed to respond accordingly, flailing maladroitly on the screen.

“Fuck the slow mo!” he shouted finally, throwing the controller away from him and flopping back onto the couch, hands over his face. “These controllers are so unresponsive! I can't do this shit!” 

Scott and Bobby sent each other amused glances. 

“Score one for the snails,” Scott drawled, and Bobby laughed. 

Peter gave them the finger, his other arm still thrown over his face. 

His shirt had carded up slightly to real a strip of pale skin, and Bobby grinned impishly, covering his hand with ice and then slipping it under Peter's shirt against his skin. 

Peter jolted to his feet, yelling something to fast to be understood before grabbing Bobby and running out of the house, probably to drop in the lake, which Bobby would then freeze, and Peter would try to slide on and end up crashing into a tree. 

Scott easily won the video game.

* * *

Things got harder for Scott after Wanda joined the X-Men. 

Not because she was difficult to deal with—no, she was just as beautiful and talented and kind and thoughtful as she'd been in all her movies and interviews. (He still couldn't believe that the actress Wanda Frank was actually Wanda Maximoff, Peter's twin sister.) 

And it wasn't because she made Peter more difficult to deal with—if anything, Peter had calmed down after she joined the team. He was less annoying than he'd ever been.

No, it was because it hurt to watch them interact with each other. 

He watched them laugh together, tease each other, fight with each other, forgive each other, hug each other, comfort each other, just generally act like siblings.

It reminded him too much of Alex. Alex, who was dead. 

He would be watching Peter and Wanda, and something they did or said would remind him of something Alex had done or said, or something he'd done or said to Alex, positive or negative, and he would have to hurriedly leave the room to go hide in a bathroom or a closet somewhere and curl into a ball while his eyes burned and stung and seared, no longer able to shed tears due to his mutation.

It had been over a year since his older brother's death, but it still hurt like hell. 

He knew that Jean knew why he left. She would comfort him, sometimes, when he needed it. She'd leave him alone when he needed it, too. She was great like that. 

He knew that Hank knew, because sometimes he would look at Scott and get this soft expression on his face and say, “You remind me so much of your brother,” or, “Alex would be proud of you,” giving a smile before looking away and rubbing his neck, awkward and embarrassed. 

“He misses Alex, too,” Jean had told him softly, once. “They were good friends.” 

“Yeah,” Scott had said, shrugging her off. “I know.” 

He thought that maybe Wanda noticed, but didn't say anything. She'd just kind of give him this sad smile, sometimes, or touch his shoulder, like she knew how much he was hurting. It always made him feel a little bit better.

What he hadn't expected, though, was that Peter had noticed. Peter always seemed so flippant and oblivious, almost callous, sometimes. So even if Peter had noticed, he hadn't expected Peter to give a fuck. 

So he was surprised when, after having watched Peter and Wanda argue about whose fault it had been when they'd accidentally caught the kitchen on fire when trying to make breakfast after having gotten their powers and who had been more instrumental in putting the fire out, he'd quickly left the room to head to the bathroom until he calmed down, only to be intercepted by Peter. 

“What do you want?” Scott had asked, more caustically than he'd meant to. 

“Uh,” Peter said, brushing a hand through his hair, giving an awkward grin. “I really suck at this shit.” 

“Then get out of my way,” Scott had said, trying to step around him, only for the speedster to move directly in front of him again. 

“Wanda and I remind me of your dead brother, right?” Peter blurted, and Scott froze. 

Scott clenched his fist, eyes burning. He wished he could cry. Crying hurt less than whatever happened to his eyes now. “Get out of my way.” 

“I'm sorry I wasn't fast enough to save him,” Peter said, and Scott was surprised to see a flash of pain on the speedster's face. “I didn't get there in time. He was already enveloped in the blast when I got there. I was too late.” 

There was a lump in Scott's throat. “It wasn't your fault,” he said thickly. 

“I know, but,” Peter said, looking away and laughing slightly, painfully. “I should've been faster.”

Scott had never seen Peter look so crumpled, slouched there against the wall, hair in his face, lips tight and shoulders hunched. 

Scott took a deep breath, slowly relaxing his hands, letting them unclench, letting the tension leave him. 

He leaned against the wall next to the speedster. “I'm just glad you got there in time to save everyone else,” he said softly. And he was, he really was. 

Of course he wished that Peter had gotten there a split second earlier, in time to save Alex too, but it wasn't Peter's fault he hadn't, and it was still beyond fortunate that he'd gotten there when he had and had managed to save everyone else. 

Peter gave that self-deprecating-sounding laugh again. It sounded strange on him, like it didn't fit, too raw for such a polished personality. “You'd think someone as fast as I am wouldn't have such a tendency to be too late.” 

“It wasn't your fault,” Scott said again, suddenly feeling exhausted. 

Peter was silent for several moments. “I don't know what it's like to have a brother,” he said finally. “But from what Wanda's told me, they sound pretty annoying.” 

That elicited a small chuckle out of Scott. “Yeah, they kinda are.” He paused, looking down. “They're still pretty great, though.” 

“Yeah,” Peter said, letting his head thunk slightly back against the wall. “I can't… I can't imagine what it would be like to… to have my sibling die…” He took a sharp breath, holding it, let it out hissing through his teeth. “I don't know what I'd do without Wanda,” he admitted quietly. 

He paused, before bringing a bit of wry humor into his voice again as he said, “Probably a lot of stupid shit, like go around taking people's toothbrushes while they're brushing their teeth and putting it in their butts.” 

Scott gave a surprised laugh. “Yeah,” he said, grinning lopsidedly, “that sounds like something you'd do if you didn't have someone to keep you in check.” 

Peter chuckled quietly. “Yeah, really.” 

They were silent for several moments, staring at the opposite wall. 

Scott took a breath in through his nose, letting it out with a sigh. “Alex also caught the kitchen on fire soon after his powers appeared,” he said finally. 

“Yeah,” Peter said lightly, “I hear that kind of thing happens a lot.”

“He was freaking out so much that I had to be the one to get the fire extinguisher and put it out,” Scott said. He paused. “Actually, I'm not sure if he even knew where the fire extinguisher was in the first place.” 

Peter chuckled quietly. “Sounds like someone I would've gotten along with.” 

“You probably would've,” Scott snorted. “Hotheads.” He paused, looking down as he scuffed a shoe against the floor. When he spoke, his voice was low: “Well, you probably would've gotten along with the him from before the war. He was different, after…” 

Peter patted his shoulder. “I can't tell you that things will get better, because I don't know that—or that he'd be proud of you, because I didn't know the guy—or that you should cheer up, because I know that if Wanda died, 'cheering up' would be the last thing I'd be doing, for, like, ever—or that… well, I guess I can't really tell you anything, really.” The patting stopped, but the hand stayed on Scott's shoulder. “I'm sorry, man.” 

Scott didn't say anything. 

Peter was silent, too, for several moments, before finally he said, “I really suck at this, don't I?” a wry, self-deprecating grin audible in his tone. 

Scott's lips quirked. “A little bit,” he said. “But thanks for trying.” 

“Yeah,” Peter said, patting Scott on the shoulder again. “Sure. Just don't think I'm going to come comfort you every time your lower lip gets all trembly and your chin wrinkles up.” 

Scott looked over to give a no doubt scathing retort, but Peter was already gone. 

Scott sighed, indignation leaving him, turning and starting to walk back towards the recreation room, feeling well enough to skip the hiding-in-the-bathroom-while-his-eyes-burned-up episode. 

He filed what he'd learned about this other side of Peter to think about later. 

Everything he learned about his team members helped make him better able to lead them, after all.

* * *

For someone as fast as Peter was, he always seemed to be too late. 

He could run to speeds up to Mach 112,524, yet somehow he was _never fast enough._

Not fast enough to see the bullets before it was too late and he was traveling upwards in the air after being thrown by the telekentic. Not fast enough to fall to the ground where he could once again use friction to control his own velocity. Not fast enough to shout a warning. Not fast enough to move Wanda out of the way before the bullets tore through her from behind. 

Not fast enough to save his beloved sister from getting killed, no matter how he pushed himself, not even bothering to move all the bullets in front of him out of his way, not even seeming to notice them.

 _“Wanda!”_ he yelled reaching her just as she hit the ground, quickly pulling her into his lap, trying desperately to slow her bleeding with his hands. But there were too many bullet wounds, too many… 

“Pie...” she murmured, green eyes hazy as she looked up at him, a small smile gracing her lips. “Pietro...” 

Peter could only watch as the light in her eyes faded in slow motion, her head lolling limp against his chest. 

_“Wanda!”_ he screamed, tears blurring his vision as he hugged her dead body close, feeling like he was collapsing in on himself, his heart turned to a black hole in his chest. _“WANDA!”_

He was shaking, trembling violently, kneeling on the ground in the middle of the battlefield with his dead sister in his arms, blood soaking his suit. 

Others were yelling, now, looking or running towards him, horror on their faces, but he couldn't hear them. He couldn't even hear his own screaming. 

He couldn't hear anything, the sound sucked from the world with Wanda's soul. 

He was shaking so hard, so fast the outlines of his body were a blur, a photograph taken of a racing car, and his mind wasn't the only thing that was destabilizing. 

“GET AWAY FROM HIM!” Beast yelled. “HE'S ACCELERATING THE MOLECULE STRUCTURE OF EVERYTHING AROUND HIM! IT'S ALL GOING TO—”

But Beast's warning came too late, and everything exploded.

* * *

_KA-BOOM!_

Bobby was thrown across the kitchen, slamming into the wall hard enough to knock the breath out of him.

“What the hell?” he gasped, catching his breath enough to push himself up, only to see Peter standing there, his mouth a perfect O and covered in ice cream. 

“What… just happened?” Peter asked, dark eyes wide. 

Bobby started laughing. 

“Vhat happened?!” Kurt exclaimed, bamfing into the kitchen, glancing around wildly at the ice cream-covered room. “I heard an explozion!” 

Peter brushed a hand back through his silver hair, making a face at all the sticky, flavored cream there. “My ice cream blew up,” he said simply. 

Bobby was still laughing. “Oh my god,” he gasped out, clutching his stomach, tears of mirth streaming down his face and turning to snowflakes when they fell from his nose and chin. “That was hilarious!” 

“I'm pretty sure I didn't put any explosives in the recipe,” Peter said, eying the liquid ice cream on his hands. 

Then he was gone, and then he was back, a stunned Hank next to him. 

Peter shoved is ice cream-covered hand in the scientists face. “Why did my ice cream blow up?” he asked. 

Hank blinked, moving Peter's hand out of his face to look at the ice cream-covered speedster, and then around at the equally messy kitchen, the confused Kurt, and the laughing Bobby. 

“Um,” Hank said, straightening his glasses. “Mind telling me what happened?” 

“Bobby and I were making ice cream,” Peter said. “I was shaking a plastic bag with ice and rock salt, inside of which was a smaller plastic bag with the ice cream ingredients, to get it to freeze and turn into ice cream. And then it exploded.” 

Hank's blue eyes lit up. “How fast were you shaking it?” 

Peter shrugged. “I dunno. Faster than you could shake it. And that sounded a lot less like a dance-off challenge in my head.” 

Hank looked like Christmas had come early. “That's amazing!” he said, grinning. Straightening his glasses again and beginning to gesture excitedly with his hands as he explained, “What you did was demonstrate the ability to vibrate something's molecular structure at high speeds, destabilizing the atoms and causing it to explode. Here,” he grabbed an orange from the bowl of fruit on the kitchen counter, handing it to the speedster, still grinning. “Shake this, and see if you can do it again.” 

Peter tossed the orange from hand to hand, before shrugging, saying, “Okay, sure,” and starting to shake the fruit, his hand a blur. 

Bobby's brown eyes widened, and he grabbed Kurt's three-fingered hand, dragging the confused teleporter behind the counter, out of sight from the speedster. 

“Vhy are ve—” Kurt started.

_KA-BOOM!_

The orange exploded, and Hank was thrown across the room, slamming into the wall and dropping to the floor, a stunned expression on his face.

Bobby pointed at Hank. “ _That's_ why.” 

“Ah,” Kurt said, nodding. “I zee.” 

“Huh,” Peter said, glancing down at his hand, wiggling his fingers. 

“You,” Hank said, pushing himself to his feet, his excitement completely unruffled by being thrown into a wall, “are _fascinating_.” 

“Yeah,” Peter said, looking up at the scientist and grinning. “I'm pretty awesome, huh?” 

“Don't encourage him!” Bobby yelled at Hank from behind the counter, winking at Kurt as he formed a snowball in his hands. “He's already a cocky bastard! Don't go making it worse!” 

“No need to go getting jealous,” Peter smirked, leaning against the counter and examining his fingernails. 

Bobby peeked around the counter, and, upon seeing that Peter wasn't looking his way, stood up and threw a snowball at him, hitting him in the face. 

“'Port, Kurt!” Bobby shrieked, jumping into the blue mutant's arms. “Now!” 

A confused Kurt teleported away. 

“Damn that kid!” Peter said, wiping the snow from his face, wrinkling his nose. “He just doesn't know when to quit.” 

Then he zoomed off, presumably to go find Bobby and pay him back. 

Hank gave a small grin, picking up another orange from the fruit bowl and spinning it on his finger, watching it thoughtfully.

* * *

The lightning bolt struck the ground where he'd been standing, and Peter watched it thoughtfully. 

Lightning bolts really were pretty. All blinding blue-white and spidery-zig-zag-y, like a large crack between dimensions or something cool and dramatic like that. 

He grapevined out of the way as another strike of lightning hit where he'd been standing, only to backflip out of the way as yet another tried to hit him. 

He grinned up at Storm who was hovering above him. 

“Can't hit me!” he said cheekily, waving at her, laughing as he dodged another lightning bolt. “Too slow!” 

“I don't—” Kurt said, bamfing out of the way of the lightning bolts, “—underztand vhy—” another bamf, another lightning strike, “—ve are—” _bamf! Bang!_ “—doing tiss.”

“For training,” Peter said, dodging another lightning bolt and watching the teleporter do the same. “And for fun. I mean, c'mon,” more lightning strikes, “how many people can say they can dodge lightning bolts?' 

“Very—” _Bamf!_

“—true.” _Bamf!_

“You know I'm going easy on you boys, right?” Ororo called down to them, eyes glowing white as she called down the lightning, wind whipping around her. “You wouldn't be having nearly so easy a time otherwise.” 

“Oh yeah,” Peter challenged, grinning as he zipped around. “Prove it, 'Ro!” 

The next lightning strike hit far too close to him for comfort, making him yelp. 

_Bamf! Bang!_ “You juzt had to goad her, didn't you?!” 

“Sorry.” _Fwoosh! Zap!_

“Wait, no, not sorry.” _Fwoosh! Zap!_

“This is way more fun!” 

_Bamf! Bang!_

“I fear for you—” _Bamf! Bang!_

“—mein Freund. You—” _Bamf! Bang!_

“—zeem to lack—” _Bamf! Bang!_

“—zelf-prezervation zkillz.” 

_Fwoosh! Zap!_

“Living on the edge, man.” _Fwoosh! Zap!_

“Living on the edge.” 

_Bamf! Bang!_

“I ztill feel—” _Bamf! Bang!_

“—like tere—” _Bamf! Bang!_

“—iz a—” _Bamf! Bang!_

“—more peazeful—” _Bamf! Bang!_

“—vay to—”

* * *

Peter was very good at getting into trouble. 

Which is why it really wouldn't have surprised any one that he crossed paths with Deadpool and got involved in one of the mercenary's missions. 

“There is no more peaceful way to do this,” the mercenary said solemnly as he crouched on the catwalk, casting his voice as deep and resonating as it could go. “We have to kill them.” His voice changed, becoming high-pitched and maniacal as he said, “We have to kill _all of them_ , Harry! _They all_ have to die!” 

“Who's Harry?” Quicksilver asked, popping up next to him and peering over the mercenary's shoulder at the armed guards on the floor below them. “And all of them? Are you sure?” 

“All of them except,” the mercenary said, pausing dramatically, “for Bob.” 

Quicksilver raised an eyebrow. “What's so special about this Bob guy?” 

Deadpool shrugged. “Nothin', really. He's a friend—well, more like a pet, I guess. But he doesn't actual believe in any of the conquering-the-world shit, he's just a hired thug—who is one of the least thug-y and most cowardly people I've ever encountered—who will take any job that offers him a good dental plan.” 

Quicksilver pulled his goggles down over his eyes. “Let's make a deal: I don't kill Bob, and you don't tell my mother about what I'm going to do, okay?” 

“Deal,” Deadpool said, but the speedster was already gone. 

“Save some for me!” the mercenary cried, vaulting over the railing of the catwalk and landing in a crouch and an, “Ouch! Cracked tibia! Or cracked fibula! Always forget which one's which.” 

He looked around at all the prone bodies around him, their necks broken. “I thought I told you to save some for me! You total partykill. Is that even a word? And you better not have killed Bob, Energizer Bunny Dude!” 

“Relax,” Quicksilver said, appearing in front of him with one of the soldiers, who was looking dazed, but alive. “This is Bob, right?” he asked, poking the guy in the side of the neck. “He didn't have a wallet with any kind of identification like most of the other guys, but the name 'Bob' was written on the back of his underwear.” 

“Ow!” the guy said, bringing his hands up over his face. “Oh, god, don't hurt me, please! I'll do anything!” 

“Yeah, that's Bob,” Deadpool said, walking over as Quicksilver let go of the man and began running around the room, gathering up all the dropped soldiers' weapons. 

“Mr. Wilson?” Bob asked, removing his arms from his face and looking at the mercenary, grinning hugely. “Mr. Wilson! What are you doing here?” He glanced around the room at the dead bodies of his colleagues, frowning at one of them. “Aw, did you have to kill Roger? He was nice, I liked him.” 

“Wasn't me that killed him,” Deadpool said. “Unfortunately. The kid's stealing all the fun!” 

“Kid? What kid?” Quicksilver asked, appearing beside the mercenary and making Bob scream in surprise. “I don't see any kids here. What is it with you and Logan hallucinating kids everywhere?” 

“It's called being old,” Deadpool said.

“You're not that old, Mr. Wils—” Bob started, before Deadpool punched him in the face, and he dropped to the ground, unconscious. 

Quicksilver poked the unconscious man with his shoe. “You have weird friends, 'Pool.” 

“And you have weird hair, 'Silver” the mercenary countered, unsheathing his swords and heading for the door.

“Touché,” the speedster said, jogging behind him. “So. Should I let you deal with the next batch of guards so your ego doesn't get injured too much?” 

“Probably,” Deadpool said, kicking the door open. “I don't know if healing factors can grow back damaged egos. Probably best not to risk it.” 

And then there was a barrage of bullets and a blur of blades, and Quicksilver walked leisurely behind the mercenary for a ways, watching his hands spin the swords to cut the bullets in half, impressed enough to memorize the movements to show Kurt later. 

The things that mutant could do with swords was impressive, especially despite the fact that he only had three fingers on each hand, which looked annoying to have to deal with. Having a prehensile tail that could also wield a sword had to be pretty cool, though.

When Deadpool got to actually slicing and dicing the guards, Quicksilver's main objective changed to trying to avoid getting blood splatters on him. 

Splatters of blood were strangely hard to avoid around Deadpool, even for a speedster. 

“Ew,” Quicksilver said as they stood at the end of the hallway, wiping drops of red from his goggles. “That is so gross, man. See, this is why I should be the one doing the killing—snapping necks is way less disgusting.” 

“Get over yourself, princess,” Deadpool said, kicking down the door at the end of the hall and striding inside. “ALRIGHT, PEOPLE!” he yelled at the scrambling scientists. “TELL ME WHERE THE FREAKS AT!” 

“Rude, much?” Quicksilver said from beside him. “Besides, I already rescued the mutants from their confinements and dropped them off a good distance away with a set of instructions saying that they could leave and go about their lives, or they could go to either Magneto's base or Charles's school, whatever they wanted. Gave them directions. They should have a choice, y'know?” 

“When the fuck did you do all that?!” Deadpool asked, not seeming to be paying the terrified scientists any attention, but when one of them tried to aim some experimental-looking gun at him, Deadpool shot them in the head without looking. 

Quicksilver shrugged. “You were taking a long time to talk to Bob. I started the data download you were hired to get. Unfortunately, it's not done yet—I just checked—because computers are really fucking slow.” 

Deadpool turned to you, white eyes of his mask wide. “Holy shit,” he said, jerking his thumb behind him at where the speedster used to be standing. “No wonder Weapon Plus wanted this guy! If I were an evil corporation with nefarious plots to make living weapons for egregious purposes, I'd want this guy, too!”

“Who the fuck are you talking to?” Peter asked from right beside the mercenary, trying to see what he was looking at. 

“Just the readers, don't worry about it,” Deadpool said, shooting you a wink and mouthing 'Call me!' as he made the phone sign by his ear, before turning back to the hiding scientists and announcing, “Alright! Who wants to die quickly and cleanly, as apposed to slowly and gorily! Which is so totally a word since there's no squiggly red line under it, fuck yes!” 

None of them raised their hands.

“Guess they're all yours, then,” Quicksilver said. 

There were screams as Deadpool went choppity-chop with his swords, scientist heads and limbs disconnecting from their bodies with apparent eagerness. “Hey,” Deadpool rambled as he slaughtered, “why the hell does 'Deadpool' have a red squiggly line under it, huh? Why isn't my name in the dictionary yet?! Under D in the dictionary there should be an entry that reads: 'Deadpool: the Merc with a Mouth; the Regeratin' Degenerate; can and will kill you if given the correct motivation.” 

“Under 'quicksilver' in the dictionary is the description: 'the liquid metal mercury; used in similes and metaphors to describe something that moves or changes very quickly, or that is difficult to hold or contain,'” Quicksilver recited, moving out of the way of the splattering gore. “I think that fits pretty well, don't you think?” 

“Negasonic Teenage Warhead is an awesomer name! But my name's quicker to say 'cause syllables!” Deadpool crowed, hacking off the last scientist's head. “So hah!” 

“Whatever helps you sleep better at night,” Quicksilver shrugged, glancing at his watch. “Can we go now? If I'm late to dinner, my sister will get mad at me, and then I'll blame you, and then you'll die.” He yawned. “Which would be fine by me, of course.” 

Putting a hand to one side of his mouth, Deadpool leans toward you, whispering conspiratorially, “Hey, you ever notice how he yawns whenever he's trying to be intimidating?” 

“Dude, seriously,” Quicksilver said, suddenly standing next to him and peering at the air. “Who the hell are you talking to?” 

“My fans,” Deadpool said, winking at you.

“Your fans are invisible and don't exist,” Quicksilver drawled. “Yes, that makes sense, actually.” 

“You're just jealous you can't see them!” Deadpool said, skipping off toward the computers. “You said the drive was over here downloading, right?” 

“It was,” Quicksilver said, holding up his hand, the drive tucked against his palm by his thumb. “Not anymore. It finished while you were talking to your nonexistant fans.” 

“You should watch that silver tongue of yours, or one day someone's gonna cut it off!” Deadpool told him cheerfully, pulling explosives out of his pouches and beginning to set the lab up for a big boom. 

“They'd have to catch me first,” Quicksilver pointed out. 

Deadpool had just stepped back from setting up the explosives, nodding. “That oughtta do it! Let's blow this popsicle stand to kingdom come!” 

“Cool,” Quicksilver said, suddenly appearing right beside him and pressing the detonation button. 

“WAIT—!” Deadpool yelled, only to find himself outside the facility, watching it explode in a huge and glorious fireball. “Oh,” he said, jaw slack. “ _Damn_ you're fast!” The eyes of his mask seemed to get wider as an idea popped into his head. “Hey! How much would I have to pay you to be my personal chauffeur?” 

But Quicksilver was already gone. 

(As good as Peter was at getting into trouble, he was even better at getting out of it.)

* * *

Peter ran into the Prof's office, to find Charles and Erik at each other's throats, yelling at each other about something or other that Peter didn't care to speed up time enough to try and understand what they were saying. 

He walked over, examining their faces frozen in their anger. Charles eyes were hard, his lips tight, hands clenched on the armrests of his wheelchair, while Erik's eyes were practically sparking, spittle flying from his mouth.

Peter made a face. _Ew. Gross._

He stood back, hands on his hips as he regarded them appraisingly. 

Should he film the argument, get it on camera for later blackmail purposes? 

Nah, it wouldn't do to have Mommy and Daddy fighting. It would upset some of the younger students. Many of them had come from broken homes, they didn't need adults fighting around them here, too. 

Well, maybe he'd still film it, anyway. But this would be way funnier.

He ran out of the room, grabbed a camera, set it on the windowsill so it would get good lighting on the arguing adults, and then he ran out of the mansion, out into town, beginning to check the grocery stores for what he needed, and—

_Yep, there we go. Looks like it's February right now, perfect!_

(Months were so hard to keep track of. Time was so hard to keep track of, the way it froze around him.)

He grabbed the objects and ran back to the mansion, setting them down in between Charles and Erik. 

He nodded to himself, and then ran out of the room.

He'd collect the camera later.

* * *

And then the feds showed up.

“The little bastard,” Deadpool said, unsheathing his katanas. “But hey, his loss that he's missing out on the afterparty!”

The feds were treated to a masked grin. “It was so nice of you guys to show up! Say, does anyone here know how to cha-cha? No? Don't worry, I'll show you!”

* * *

Erik and Charles were arguing heatedly about mutant-human relations, when suddenly a bouquet of six red, heart-shaped helium balloons appeared between them, saying either _I LOVE YOU_ in large white block letters, or _You're the greatest!_ in cursive.

They stared at the Valentine's Day balloons for several minutes, Erik's jaw gaping, Charles blinking.

Erik closed his jaw with a snap. “Peter,” he muttered, eyes narrowing. 

Charles just smiled slightly, looking up at him through the balloons, eyebrows raising. “Happy early Valentine's Day?” he offered.

* * *

“Hi sis,” Peter said, suddenly appearing at the dinner table, bowl already heaped with stew. “Sorry I'm late. There was this thing.” He started wolfing down his dinner. “Wow, sis, this is really good! There's absolutely no way this is your cooking.” 

Wanda snorted, grinning slightly as she took a bite. “Yeah, it's not. It's Erik's.” 

“He doesn't completely suck as a dad,” Peter said, gesturing at the gulasz and buckwheat kasza. “He's a great cook, and it's cool how he's picked up different cuisines from different countries. This one's Polish, right? Oh, wait, I just checked his recipe books, and yeah, it is. Hey, where is Dadneto, anyway? His bowl's here partly eaten and—oh, wait, he's in the restroom, nevermind.” 

Wanda leaned forward, a knowing smile curling her lips.“So, did this 'thing' that kept you late end up involving the police, by any chance?”

“Nope!” Peter said, shoveling food into his mouth. 

“The feds?” 

Peter stopped eating, staring at her with wide, dark eyes. “Shit. How did you know?!” 

“With you,” Wanda said wryly, “things usually end up involving some law enforcement agency or another.” 

“Shit,” Peter said, blinking. “I forgot.” 

Wanda laughed.

* * *

Peter paused in the hallway on the way down the stairs. 

Wait. Hadn't he wanted to ask the Prof a question? Wasn't that why he'd gone to the Prof's office in the first place?

He shook himself and kept running to the kitchen to grab a snack. He'd forgotten his question anyway. So it couldn't have been that important, right?

* * *

“Weapon XII!” Deadpool said, when the silver-haired figure dressed in black suddenly appeared in front of him while he was scouting the perimeter of a facility for a personal vendetta mission. “Or should I say, Ex-Weapon XII? What are you doing here today in this rather despicable part of the otherwise pleasant Land of Pancakes and Maple Syrup?” 

“Same thing you are, I believe, Weapon XI,” Quicksilver said, letting a grin split his face. 

“ _Ex_ -Weapon XI,” Deadpool corrected, wagging a finger at him. “You can't forget the extra X! And hey, really?” he said, eyes of his mask widening, however impossible, his grin strangely obvious through the red and black mask. “You know what this means, right?!”

“I could guess,” Quicksilver said, face schooled into a bored expression, “but why don't you just enlighten me.” 

“SUPERHERO TEAM-UP!” Deadpool cried, fistpumping. “FUCK YEAH!”

“I don't think either of us really count as superheroes, at the moment,” Quicksilver pointed out, though his lips were tugging upwards. 

“ANTI-HERO SUPERHUMAN TEAM-UP!” Deadpool amended, fistpumping. “FUCK YEAH! We are going to kick evil corporation ass together! This is going to be awesome!”

* * *

It hurt Raven to see Charles and Erik together.

Well, maybe _hurt_ wasn't the right word. It's not that she wasn't glad that they were together—those two idiots were made for each other. Mostly because they were both. So. Stupid.

She couldn't believe she'd ever been in love with either of them.

And that was why it felt weird, to see them together. Because she had been in love with them, at another time. 

She'd had a crush on Charles for years, starting from when he'd first found her trying to steal food from his kitchen. It was why she'd been so jealous, whenever he'd on those girls at the bar, remarking about some small 'mutation' or another, two different colored eyes or auburn hair or _whatever_ it was. Why could he see those 'mutations' as 'groovy' but not hers? 

But all he'd ever thought of her as was a sister. But she'd never thought of him as a brother. He was a friend. A close friend. She'd wanted him to be her boyfriend. 

It wouldn't have worked out, she realized now. Charles was such an _idiot_. Charles, Charles, Charles. And he was too softhearted, he never understood what it was like to feel truly _different_ , really. To feel like a monster. 

And then there was Hank. Hank, Hank, Hank. He knew what it was like to feel truly different, like a monster. But he was so young, not even college age, since he was such a genius and had earned his degrees so early. He was just a teenage kid, when she met him, and so obsessed with the thought of being normal, maybe because of that teenage need to fit in with one's peers, that he couldn't accept his mutation the way she was coming to. The way she'd needed to. 

The way Erik had shown her how to.

Erik, Erik, Erik. While all she'd known was the feeling of inferiority because of her mutation, when that was all that even the other mutants around her seemed to feel, Erik exuded a belief that their mutations made them _superior_. That they weren't just on level with humans, as Charles like to preach, but that they were _better_ , that they were _beautiful_ , that they weren't the _freaks_ they'd believed themselves to be for their whole lives. 

Erik held his confidence—his confidence in himself, his confidence in his belief, his confidence in them all—in the line of his shoulders, the set of his jaw, the steel in his eyes, the tone of his voice, the echo of his footsteps. He was charismatic. Charles was there to guide them and help them understand their powers, but Erik was the leader they'd needed.

The leader they'd thought they'd needed. 

Erik was an idiot. 

But he'd known what it was to be different, to be hated and derided and used by humans. He knew what if felt like to hide what he was, and he knew that need to not have to hide. To not have to fear. 

He knew that humans were the enemy. 

And he was willing to do whatever it took to raise mutants to their rightful place.

Well, not whatever it took. Not tearing the world down, not like Apocalypse. Erik wasn't crazy. He wasn't fanatical. 

He was just rash, and angry, and maybe a little bit obsessive. Acted emotionally and didn't think things through. Didn't consider the consequences, a quality he appeared to have passed on to his son.

Raven thought that maybe it was that anger that attracted her to Erik, originally. Until she'd realized that he was still an idiot, and absolutely no fun at all, and got to know Azazel, who was not just angry and serious but also funny and cute and caring and skillful and _noticed_ things. 

She missed him, sometimes. She saw him sometimes in Kurt's pranks, in Kurt's anger, in Kurt's seriousness, in Kurt's humor. 

She didn't know where Kurt had gotten his steadfast moral compass. Must have been the couple who'd raised him. The couple she'd left him with.

They were good people. That was why she'd left him there. She'd left him there because they were better people than her.

She was afraid to be a mother. She was afraid of what would happen to her son if she tried to raise him herself. And she was busy trying to safe mutantkind _her_ way, and she couldn't let a baby get in the way of that. Mutantkind and her mission were so much more important than one baby. One baby who would be better off in a family with a dad that was alive and a mom who cared and wasn't too busy to pay attention to him. Better off in a family that could teach him love.

Raven wasn't sure that she really knew how to love, not really. The way Charles looked at her, sometimes. The way Erik looked at her. The way Kurt looked at her. The way Kurt looked at everyone; he had so much love for life and God's creatures (Raven had never believed in God). 

She couldn't fathom the way the looked at her, when all she could feel was bitterness. There was a tenderness in her eyes that she could never remember feeling, not even for Azazel, who she sometimes missed. 

She didn't love Charles or Erik, not any more. 

But it still felt weird to see them together. They were so different, and so steadfast in her ways, that she never would have thought it would have worked out. But maybe they admired in the other what they themselves did not have, as much as they hated those qualities as well. Maybe they saw in each other something they could never experience, never understand, not without the other. 

Or maybe they were just both idiots. 

But whatever the case, they were in love with each other, and it felt weird to see them, and they obviously didn't need her there, and neither did Kurt or anyone else, so there was no reason for her to stay, not when she felt so trapped.

She'd never really felt like she'd had a home, always feeling best when she was traveling, on missions or on the run. Wandering, no ties, no restraints, nothing to hold her back or hold her down. 

So she left.

* * *

“Wohin gehst du?” Kurt asked, nearly making Mystique jump.

She turned, but could barely make out her son in the dark. _Nightcrawler._ What a fitting name, indeed. The way he blended into the shadows. The way his eyes glowed slightly, and she knew that even though she could barely see him, he had no problem seeing her. 

“Ich geh' weg,” Mystique said into the darkness. It sounded heavy and cold. 

“Oh,” the shadowy of Kurt said, and he sounded sad. “Warum?” 

“Ich kann nicht bleiben,” Mystique said, wishing she had a better answer. “Ich kann nicht. Hier ist nicht mein zu Hause. Es tut mir leid.” 

She turned away.

“Werde ich dich wiedersehen?” Kurt called after her. 

She paused. “Vielleicht,” she said, but she left without looking back.

* * *

Kurt just stood there in the darkness for several minutes after his mother had left, tears gathering in his orange eyes, three-fingered fists clenched. 

“Kurt! Hey!” 

Kurt turned just in time for a silver-haired mutant to barrel into him, arms wrapping around him, head burying in his shoulder. 

“Peter?” Kurt asked uncertainly, patting the speedster on the back. “Ist zometing wrong?” 

“Yeah,” Peter muttered into his shoulder. “It's _really fucking cold_. And Wanda's not here to cuddle with, and Bobby's cold, and I was actually looking for Hank because he's _really warm_ and he won't laugh at me for being cold and snuggling because he knows that I have a c-completely genuine biological d-dilemma, but I found you f-first, and you're also really w-warm, so p-please be my heater, but ew why is your n-neck wet?” 

“Ah,” Kurt said, teeth baring in something that wasn't quite a grin. “Tearz. I am zorry. Myztique juzt… juzt left.” 

“That sucks,” Peter said, shivering hugging the other mutant closer, trying to keep his teeth from chattering and failing. “P-parents leaving s-sucks. But wh-whatever, r-right? I always had W-wanda. A-and you always h-have me, and-d everyone e-else here, so you're g-good and you don't n-need her.” 

“Yeah,” Kurt said, hugging the other mutant. “I gueß.” 

“C-cool,” the trembling mutant stuttered. “Now c-c-can I s-sleep with y-you, in a t-t-totally non-sexy w-w-way?” 

“Ja, mein Freund,” Kurt said, slightly amused as he teleported them back to his room, pulling the blanket over them both, letting the Peter snuggle against him. The speedster's skin really did feel cold. “Ve vouldn't vant you to get hypotermia, now vould ve?” 

“Don't you dare tell anyone about this,” Peter muttered against his chest.

Kurt ran a three-fingered hand through the other mutant's silver hair, smiling (his smile scared most people, even some of the other mutants, but never Peter). “Natürlich nicht.” 

“Good. And… thanks.” 

“Gern geschehen, Peter.”

Peter was already asleep.

* * *

Hank looked up from his work when he felt a breeze tussle his hair and the presence of someone standing in front of him. 

“Hello, Peter,” he said, looking up and offering a smile. “Do you need something?” 

“So, remember when we discovered I could blow things up by destabilizing their atomic structures?” Peter asked, shifting from foot to foot. “That ice cream incident? Well, I was thinking about what would happen if I destabilized my own atomic matter, and I think it might allow me to vibrate myself through solid objects, so I did the math, and here,” he shoved a piece of paper at the scientist. “Check it for me. Because I don't want to try it and then accidentally blow myself up because I did something wrong or it turns out that it's not actually possible.”

Interested, Hank took the piece of paper, eyes widening as he went over the calculations. “This,” he said, looking up at the speedster, an excited grin on his face, “ this is amazing! This could definitely work.” 

“So what's the probability that I would blow myself up trying?” Peter asked, suddenly sitting on top of Hank's desk, legs swinging slightly, hands on the table between his legs. 

Blue eyes flicked over the scrawl of numbers and formulas, calculating. “Maybe a thirty-three percent chance—”

“Good enough for me!” Peter declared, and there was a nauseating blur of motion, and suddenly Hank found himself standing in front of the wall outside Peter's room. 

“Please don't be sick,” Peter said from beside him, a steadying hand on his shoulder. “I need you to be my observer so that if it works you can verify that I can actually vibrate myself through walls, and if it doesn't work and I blow myself up then I at least take someone with me.” 

“That's a risk I'm willing to take for science,” Hank said, straightening his glasses and looking so much like a little kid on Christmas that it was contagious, and Peter had the familiar feeling of glee and excitement that came with colorful lights and eggnog cookies and a real tree and knowing that his sister had booby-trapped the presents again. 

Peter couldn't keep the grin off his face as he placed a hand on the wall, the knowledge that this could potentially kill him sending pulses of adrenalin through his system, making him shiver with the thrill of it.

He always had been an adrenalin junkie. 

“Just vibrate your body at the right speed to destabilize the connections between your molecules enough to move yourself through the spaces between the atoms of the wall,” Hank said. 

Peter shot him a grin. “I'm sure it's just as easily done as said, right?” he said, before turning his attention back to the wall, beginning to vibrate his body, quickly, minutely, till the edges of his hand were softened like he was a pencil drawing that someone had smudged with their fingers. 

He pushed his hand against the wall, watching as it disappeared into the dark wood paneling.

Fuck, the suspense was killing him.

He darted forward, closing his eyes on reflex, opening them when he felt himself emerge from the material of the wall. 

He gave a whoop and then vibrated himself back through the wall, throwing himself at Hank with a cry of, “Did you see that?! Did you see that?! I totally did it!” 

Hank was nearly as ecstatic as he was, embracing him tightly and patting him on the back. “Wow, Peter! You really did it! That's amazing!” 

“Let me try it with you!” Peter said, pulling away with a grin, and before Hank could even think of protesting, he was being vibrated through the wall, emerging in Peter's room feeling simultaneously nauseated and elated. 

Hank took a moment to collect himself, Peter jumping around the room, whooping and punching his fist into the air. “I can vibrate through walls, fuck yeah! Take that, suckers! Ain't nothin' gonna break my stride!” 

The queasiness dissipated, Hank straightened, grinning so hard his cheeks hurt. “You're incredible, Peter,” he said, voice filled with wonder. 

“Yeah?” Peter grinned, suddenly standing in front of him, wrapping his arms around Hank's neck, lips hovering hovering centimeters away from Hank's own. “Say that again,” he murmured, eyes lit up like Christmas lights.

Hank smiled. “You're—”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **[EDIT 9/25/16:]** The German has been edited. A huge thanks to  Respectable for fixing it!
> 
>  
> 
> **Translations:**
> 
>  
> 
>  _Und wer bist du?_ \- And who are you?
> 
>  _Wohin gehst du?_ \- Where are you going?
> 
>  _Ich geh' weg_ \- I'm going away
> 
>  _Warum?_ \- Why?
> 
>  _Ich kann nicht bleiben_ \- I cannot stay
> 
>  _Ich kann nicht_ \- I cannot
> 
>  _Hier ist nicht mein zu Hause_ \- This is not my home
> 
>  _Es tut mir leid_ \- I'm sorry
> 
>  _Werde ich dich wiedersehen?_ \- Will I see you again?
> 
>  _Vielleicht_ \- Possibly
> 
>  _Gern geschehen_ \- You're welcome


	4. Timewarp pt.III

* * *

**Timewarp (Sweet Dreams Are Made Of This ((don't) Wake Me Up (you dare)))**  
**pt.III**

* * *

The school had started up again, but Charles wanted students, not soldiers. 

“They'll come for us, eventually,” Hank had said. “Probably sooner rather than later. They're coming for mutants out there. The students need to know how to fight, Charles. The world needs the X-Men. These students need the X-Men.” 

But Charles had just looked at him like he was a sad and misguided child, and given him a speech about how humans and mutants needed to work together peacefully. 

“Stop dreaming, Charles!” Hank wanted to shout, but he didn't. “Look at the world around you! It's not happening! We need to defend ourselves!” 

He didn't have to say it out loud. Charles was a mindreader, after all. 

But he had just kept giving Hank that _look_ , and it made Hank feel sick. 

So he had stalked off, and started building a war plane. For when things crashed down around their heads, and Charles couldn't ignore the situation any longer. For when the need for the X-Men became too great to be ignored. 

He had started building a war plane, and he had started training himself to fight. He needed to know how. He needed to be better than he was. 

And his blue, mutated form was so, so much more powerful than his human form. Stronger. Faster. More agile. Higher reflexes. More stamina. More durability. An accelerated healing factor. Heightened senses. Razor-sharp claws and fangs. He could tie knots in rope with his toes. 

He kept himself in human form, most of the time, because he liked working with smaller, human fingers. He was a scientist, after all, and that required precision (and a confidence he still lacked in his more evolved form). 

So he worked as a human, but he trained as a mutant. 

He watched martial arts and parkour videos, slowing them down, breaking them down, analyzing them. He filmed himself practicing the moves so he could break down what he'd done wrong, what he needed to do better. 

Film himself practicing; go to the computer and replay the footage; analyze; film himself practicing; go to the computer and replay the footage; analyze. Repeat. 

There had been no one else to help him train, so he'd had to train himself. He wanted to be ready, when the fighting broke out. 

And he had been. Fighting the telepathic, telekenetic ninja Psylocke, he'd been incredibly glad he'd put so much time and effort into training. He wouldn't have had stood a chance against her, otherwise. 

He'd nearly cried when Charles had started the X-Men. When Mystique had agreed to stay and help train them. When he'd been able to put his war plane and training room to use. 

When he didn't have to train alone. 

“You didn't use enough power on the jump,” Peter said, tapping his pencil on the clipboard. “And your angle was off by a good fifteen degrees. Try again.” 

It helped, too, having someone who perceived the world at such a different speed that he could walk around Hank while he was flipping through the air, taking notes on his technique. 

“And you need to work on your speed,” Peter continued, looking at him. “You're still afraid to use your speed and strength to their full extent. As soon as you nail this flip, I'm taking you running with me.” 

Hank grinned. “You sure you're not just taking me running because I'm the second fastest person here, and therefore the least boring running partner?” 

“In your dreams, Blue.” 

“Why am _I_ called Blue, when Nighcrawler's blue, too?” 

“Because Nightcrawler's not blue, he's _indigo_ ,” Peter said, scoffing. “Therefore, he is Indigo, and you're Blue. Get with the show, Blue, geez. Now come on, perfect this fucking flip so we can go running already!” 

“So impatient,” Hank said, but he was smiling as he backed up for another try. 

“Goddamn right I'm impatient!” Peter said, gesticulating with the pencil and clipboard. “Speedster here, hellooo? As fun as this is watching you do cool flips, I have an agenda, and it involves running! And you're coming!” 

“Of course.” Hank flipped again, focusing on the corrections. 

When he landed, Peter patted him excitedly on the shoulder, grinning and waving the clipboard. “That was perfect, Blue! Do it again!” 

Hank grinned and complied.

* * *

“Oh my god!” Kitty shrieked with glee, hand over her mouth as she looked around at the mirror-walled room. “You have a ballet studio! That's so cool!” 

“Uh, it's actually not a ballet studio,” Hank said, smiling sheepishly as he rubbed the back of his neck. “I used to use this room to practice my fighting technique.” 

Kitty whirled around and latched onto his arm, hazel eyes wide and pleading. “Hank! You have to put ballet bars in here! Please? Pleeeaaaasse?” 

“Uh,” Hank said, smiling bemusedly. “I'll see what I can do.” 

“Oh, thank you!” Kitty cried, letting go of his arm to start twirling and leaping around, laughing delightedly. “This room is perfect! I could teach ballet classes here! Do you think anyone would come?” 

“I'm sure you could convince someone—” Hank said, only to utter an “Ooph!” as a certain speedster crashed into him.

“Hide me,” Peter said, tucking himself against Hank's chest and looking warily over the other man's shoulder. “Wanda's mad.” 

Hank sighed. “What did you do this time, Peter?” 

“I might have accidentally knocked over some of her make-up containers, and might have failed to catch them, so they might've ended up breaking against the floor,” Peter muttered quickly.

“Peter!” Kitty cried, hands on her hips as she glared at him. “How could you do such a thing?!”

“It was an accident!” Peter said, shrinking against Hank's chest. “And besides, I don't get why she needs all that make-up crap anyway!”

“Sometimes a girl just wants to feel pretty,” Kitty said, crossing her arms and leveling him with a Look. 

“But she's beautiful _without_ the make-up!” Peter protested. “She doesn't _need_ it!” 

“That's not the point!” Kitty said, still glaring at him. 

“I don't get the point!” Peter said, throwing up his arms, nearly hitting Hank in the face, before Hank grabbed his wrists, sighing. 

“Have you tried apologizing to her?” Hank suggested, finding himself with not much choice but to put an arm around the speedster. 

“I said I was sorry!” Peter said. “But she was still angry, so I had to come hide!” 

“I hate to break this to you, Peter,” Hank said, lips twitching as the speedster pressed further against his chest, as if that would really hide him, “but you probably shouldn't have chosen a room with mirrors to hide in. Even with you hiding behind me,” well, technically in front of him, but behind him from where someone coming into the room would be, since Hank had his back to the door at the moment, “all the walls are mirrored, in case you didn't notice. So if she walked in through the door, she could still see you via your reflection.” 

“Yeah, but Wanda likes you,” Peter said. “She wouldn't risk hitting you enough to take a shot at me if I'm hiding behind you. In front of you. Whatever.” He paused, looking up at the sometimes-blue mutant (Hank was four inches taller than him). “Why the hell do you even have a room with three mirrored walls anyway? It's kinda disconcerting. Is it a sex thing?” 

Kitty made a choked, giggling noise, and Hank looked up at the ceiling, sighing. “No, Peter, it's not a sex thing. It's a fighting technique perfecting thing.” 

“Soon to be a ballet thing,” Kitty added, grinning. Her eyes brightened. “Hey, Peter! Will you take my ballet class?” 

“Only if Wanda makes me,” Peter muttered, twisting to look over Hank's shoulder, making a keening noise and pulling back to hide against him again. 

“PETER!” Wanda cried, storming into the room, eyes glowing scarlet. “Don't you dare try to run away!”

* * *

_“Could you just stop running for one fucking second?!”_ Wanda yelled from where she was levitating in the air, scarlet energy whipping around her, leaping from her eyes, scarlet cape and long auburn hair fluttering wildly. The living image of fury. _“All you ever do is run from your problems!”_

“Wanda, please,” Pietro said, holding his hands up defensively even as he backed away. “You don't understand—”

_“What don't I understand, Pietro?!”_ Wanda shouted, torrents of scarlet whirling and whipping around her like a hurricane. _“That you're too cowardly to ever just face your problems?! That you're so afraid of being failing and being unable to escape it that you panic and run away instead of staying to actually resolve your shit?! That all you're good for is running?! All you ever do is run run run and lie lie LIE!”_

“Wanda,” Pietro whimpered, face in his hands as he found his back pressed up against the wall. “Sister, please...” 

_“Why can't you ever just stay and deal with the consequences of your actions, like the rest of us?!”_

“Wanda,” Pietro pleaded.

Wanda screamed wordlessly, unleashing her powers at him.

In the blink of an eye, Pietro was gone, running away again. 

Always, always running away, so fast that nobody could keep up with him, not even her. 

Wanda collapsed to her knees, head hung low as long auburn hair obscured her face, hiding her tears as she sobbed.

* * *

“I said I was sorry!” Peter cried, clutching Hanks shirt, face hidden against the other man's chest. “It was an accident, okay?! I can go steal— _get_ you new ones!”

Hank sighed. 

Wanda stood there for several moments, scarlet energy looping around her clenched fists, before the power dissipated and she burst out laughing, Kitty bursting out in giggles as well, for some reason. 

“What?” Peter asked, peeking out over Hank's shoulder at his sister, narrowing his eyes. “What's so funny?!” 

“You are,” Wanda said, giggling and wiping her eyes. “Oh, this is precious.” 

“What?!” Peter whined, hands loosening slightly in Hank's shirt. “You're scary when you're angry!” 

“Hey, Wanda,” Kitty interrupted, prancing over to the older girl and bouncing on the balls of her feet, hands clasped behind her as she smiled excitedly. “Will you take my ballet class, once Hank installs ballet bars into this room? And will you make Peter take my class, too?” 

Wanda's smile turned wicked. “Why, of course I would, Kitty! I would love to learn ballet! And I'm sure Peter would benefit from it, too.” 

Peter groaned, closing his eyes and banging his forehead on Hank's chest. “Women,” he grumbled, “are conspiring against me.” 

Hank patted his back. “There there,” he said, smiling amusedly, “I'm sure you'll be alright.”

* * *

Peter had been missing for days now.

Hank rubbed his eyes, dark bags beneath them from sleepless nights spent searching: analyzing security footage from the fight, hacking government computers, trying to upgrade Cerebro. “Do you think Peter is…?” 

Charles patted his arm and tried to offer him a reassuring smile. It mostly came off as worried. “I'm sure he's alright.” 

Hank stared into the distance over Charles's shoulder, exhaustion radiating from his form. “Don't lie to me, Professor. I'm too old for that. We both know it was likely Stryker's men who took him.” Anger in his voice, then. Frustration. “It's been _eight days and seventeen hours_ since he went missing.” Desperation. Fear. “He's not going to be alright.” 

“We'll find him,” Charles said. “I promise.” 

“But when we do, will he be…?” Hank trailed off, looking down and clenching his hands. 

“I don't know, Hank,” Charles said quietly. “But whatever has happened to him, we'll help him through it.” 

Hank didn't dare to look up. “And what if…?” 

“Don't,” Charles said evenly. “Don't think like that.” 

“Right,” Hank said, pulling away, heading back over to his computer. “Of course.” 

“Hank,” Charles said gently. “You need to sleep.” 

Hank shook his head. “I can't, Professor.” 

“We need you at your best, Hank. And I don't think you need me to tell you what sleep-deprivation does to the brain. Go rest. We'll keep searching for Peter.”

“No, Charles,” Hank said, shaking his head again, already typing commands into the computer. “You don't understand. I can't sleep.” His fingers flew across the keys. “I can't.” 

Charles sighed, wheeling over next to the scientist, reaching out to touch his fingers lightly to Hank's temple. “We need you to sleep, Hank,” he said, and Hank's head would have hit the keyboard as he fell unconscious, had Charles not grabbed his shoulders and pulled him back to lean in the chair. 

Charles sighed again. _Kurt_ , he projected. _Could you come down to the lab and help move Hank to his bed?_

_Ja, of course_ , came the response, and then Kurt was there in a puff of purple, sulfuric smoke, grabbing Hank's arm and them teleporting away in another bright and pungent poof.

* * *

Erik wrinkled his nose at the smell of sulfur, turning to see Kurt, Hank, and Charles now standing behind him. 

At least he was currently walking down an alley, rather than inside a building, and the sulfuric smell was quickly dispersing. 

“Charles,” Erik drawled, disregarding the other two. “To what do I owe this unexpected and unappreciated visit?” 

Charles looked tired and harried, but not nearly as bad as Hank, who looked like he hadn't slept more than a few hours in the past week. 

“We need your help, Erik,” Charles said, looking at him in a way that made Erik's stomach coil uncomfortably. 

“What is it?” he demanded, already knowing he wasn't going to like the answer. 

“It's Peter,” Hank said, looking at him with eyes devoid of their usual hatred for him, only exhaustion left in the absent emotion's place. “He's missing.” 

Erik's blood ran cold, an icy vice clamping down on his heart.

* * *

Peter could fight. He was good at fighting. 

He had to be, growing up with silver hair. He was a neon target for the all the bullies. So he'd had to learn to run, and he'd had to learn to fight. 

Usually he ran. It was easier, and faster. Fighting was such a waste of his time, and it always worried his mother when he came home bloody. She enrolled him and his sister in karate classes, saying they needed to know how to defend themselves, and it helped. It helped a lot. 

But it was still easier to run. 

He was good at running. Fast. He'd been a track star since middle school. Nobody else was ever within meters of him. He was a star player in soccer and basketball, and even the boys on his own team hated him for it. But he was still a star a player, even while having to dodge all the elbows and kicks aimed his way, from both sides. 

They hated that he was better than them at sports, and they hated that he was better than them in class, and they couldn't even steal his homework because he did it all at the very last second, scribbling it down in class right before he had to turn it in. And he still got A's most of the time (except on essays—he hated essays), even giving it his minimal effort. 

“You're just jealous 'cause you're slow,” he'd taunt them, watching them go red in the face as they tried to catch him and failed horribly. 

Sometimes they cornered him, though, and he couldn't run. So he fought, and as long as he had some room to maneuver, he could win, because the karate classes gave him fighting skills, and his speed helped him execute them, such that even when five of them ganged up on him at once, he was still the one who tended to walk away from the fight while the bullies moaned on the ground. 

He could take care of himself just fine. He was fine. Completely fine. It didn't matter that he didn't have any friends, and nobody talked to him aside from his sister and Evan Daniels, the black kid with dyed blond hair who played basketball with him—the only other player who could hold a candle to him, really—and liked to skateboard next to him on the street while he was running down the sidewalk and try to strike up a conversation, probably to try to incriminate him for something or other (why would he try to talk to Peter, otherwise?). 

He ate lunch with his sister, who all the other students were scared of, and just tried to remain untouchable. 

He let their insults roll off him, the words of, “Freak,” “Mutie,” “Faggot,” “Old man.” (They really were creative.) Because Wanda said the words didn't matter, and if Wanda said they didn't matter, then they didn't. 

“Your father left when you were born and he saw what a freak you were,” they'd say sometimes, and that was a little harder to shake off, but Magda assured him that his father had left before he'd known that she was even pregnant. 

“Would he have loved me?” Peter had asked once.

“Of course he'd love you, darling.” 

“Even with the silver hair?” (Peter thought it was gray, but Wanda said it was silver, and if it Wanda said it was silver then it was silver.) 

“Especially with the silver hair,” Magada had assured him, but there had been an odd tilt to her smile when she'd said it. 

He'd thought about dying his hair, a few times, but his sister had told him that would be cowardice, and he was perfect as he was and should flaunt it in front of everyone, and if they didn't like him because of his hair color then they weren't good people and he shouldn't be friends with them anyway. 

And she stuck by her own rule, refusing to hang out with anyone who cared about his hair color, which meant she basically didn't have any friends, either. 

“We'll show them one day, Petie,” she said, and he believed her. Because if Wanda said it, then it had to be true. 

But now, curled on the ground trying to protect his head, shoes kicking him soundly from all sides, he couldn't help but doubt it. 

On the track earlier that day, he'd run faster than he'd ever run before, only to collapse and vomit just shy of the 200 meter mark. 

He'd been sent to the nurse's office, amid yells and jeers, but the nurse hadn't found anything wrong, he didn't have a fever or anything, and had sent him on his way, saying he'd be fine. 

But the nausea had gotten worse, and he'd had to keep stepping out of class to vomit bile in the bathroom. And then he gotten cold, so, so cold, shivering violently. 

When school finally let out, he leaned against the wall of the school, waiting for Wanda, when the bullies found him. He couldn't run, and he couldn't fight, shivering, his vision go in and out of focus, feeling like he was going to vomit yet again even though there'd long been anything left in his stomach. He couldn't do anything but try to protect his head as the jocks beat him. 

“Hey, dudes! Get the fuck off him!”

The sound of yells and punches could be heard, the scuffle of a fight, and then it quieted and someone was kneeling down next to him saying, “Yo, Peter. You okay, dude?” 

Peter slowly uncurled, pain exploding all over, opening his eyes to make out the blurry form of Evan's face, which cleared to razor sharpness, only to blur again.

“Evan?” Peter mumbled in disbelief, forcing himself into a sitting position, only to lurch forward and throw up bile again. 

“Whoa, dude, take it easy,” Evan said, pulling too-long silver hair out of Peter's face. “Where's your sister, man?” 

“I don't…” Peter wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his jacket. “Don't know. I don't… don't know…” 

“You don't have a concussion, do you, man?” Evan said, crouching down to look into his eyes, trying to see if they were dilating the same. 

Peter stared at him, vision blurring and sharpening, blurring and sharpening. “Hey,” he rasped out. “Do you dye your hair blond like that? 'Cause I'd assumed you did, but up close it's not looking very dyed…” 

“You don't look concussed,” Evan said, leaning back and brushing a dark hand through maybe-dyed blond hair, “but you sure sound like you are.” 

“Are you…” Peter rasped out, pausing to spit out blood, a hand coming up to shakily wipe his mouth. “Are you… like me?” 

“Like you?” Evan asked, raising a dark eyebrow. “What, you mean an idiot?” 

Peter would have said something, but he was hit with another wave of nausea, leaning over and dry-retching, the movement causing his bruised body to throb painfully, tears clustering in the corners of his eyes. 

“Hey, come on,” Evan said when Peter had stopped retching, helping him to his feet. “I'll help you find your sister.”

* * *

“Peter's been missing for over a week _and you didn't think to inform me until now?!_ ” Erik roared. _“You promised you would protect him, Charles! I trusted you to protect him, and you betrayed me!”_

“You're not angry at me, Erik,” Charles said tiredly. “You're angry at yourself for not being there to protect him.” 

_“I trusted you, Charles!”_ Erik yelled, and there were tears in his eyes, now. “ _ou were supposed to keep him safe!”_

“I did everything I could, Erik,” Charles said softly. “Now, please, old friend. Stop shouting and help me find him.”

* * *

“I have something to show you,” Stryker said, and there was an evil smirk on his face. 

“Well then, let's see it,” Peter sighed as longsufferingly as any person could in his position, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, wrists chained to the wall above his head, ankles chained to the floor, a heavy power-dampening collar around his neck. 

Stryker was grinning like a shark as he gave a signal and the door to Peter's cell opened, a two guards walking in with Wanda staggering between them, her head down, long auburn hair obscuring her face. 

The guards forced Wanda to her knees in the middle of the cell, a third man stepping out of the shadows with a large knife glinting in his hand. 

“Last chance, Peter,” Stryker said maliciously. “Either you comply with us, or we torture your sister while you watch, helpless to stop it. What was that you had been saying about her 'wiping the floor of the universe' with out asses?” 

It took all the meager amount of energy Peter had to keep the grin off his face. “I'll never comply,” he managed to spit, voice choking from the effort not to laugh in giddy delight. 

“We'll see if you still feel that way in an hour,” Stryker smirked, gesturing for one of the guards to grab Wanda's hair, pulling it back, so she was forced to look up, the power-dampening collar on her neck on full display. 

Peter was going to laugh his ass off about this, just as soon as he was able. 

“Hey, Wanda,” he managed, weak with pain and restrained giggles. 

Wanda looked at him, no trace of concern on her face as her eyes scanned his unsightly condition, shirtless and barefoot in torn jeans, cuts, bruises, and burn marks all over his body and face, covered in blood both fresh and old. 

She'd always been an amazing actor. 

“So this is where you've been hiding, Pete,” she said smoothly, narrowing her eyes. “What, do you really hate taking out the trash that much?” 

“Yeah, it's at the very top of my list of things I hate to do,” Peter said. “Right above getting tortured and turned into a living weapon. I'd take this over taking out the trash any day.” 

“Don't think you're going to get out of your brotherly duties that easily,” Wanda said, eyes narrowed at him, ignoring the two men holding her in place while the third walked over with the knife. 

“You think that inane banter will make you any less scared?” Stryker asked, looking between them in amusement. 

Wanda's eyes never left Peter's. “Do you think asking oblivious questions will make you any less scared, Stryker?” 

The knife whipped towards her face, and in a flash of scarlet light the guards and Stryker were all blasted away from her and Wanda was standing up, collar and handcuffs clicking open and clattering to the floor as she walked forward. 

“I am going to cry really hard as soon as we get you somewhere safe,” she informed him, not a crack in her composure as she carefully undid his bonds with a touch, catching him as he slumped forward, ignoring the fact that his blood was soaking into her clothing. 

“Aww, do you have to?” he whined, even as he clung to her desperately. “Crying is gross.” 

“Crying is very necessary,” Wanda said, pulling back slightly to look at him. “It helps release damaging emotions in an nondestructive manner. Can you walk?” 

“I can run,” Peter said, even as he leaned most of his weight on her. But the release of the power-dampener had returned at least some of his energy. “I have _at least_ fifty miles left in me.” 

“No need,” Wanda said, wrapping an arm around his waist, supporting him as they exited the cell, the door crumpling out of existence in front of them. “Now come on, brother. Let's get you out of here.”

* * *

Warren needed to get out of the mansion. 

It was stifling, inside, crowded, all the students running around and shrieking at each other. Never a silent moment, never a still moment, never a moment of peace. 

Warren needed to get out. 

_Fly safely, Warren_ , came Xavier's voice in his head as he stormed out the door, nearly slamming it behind him. _Kurt, Peter, and Wanda are signed up to make dinner tonight, and are planning to cook a meal of Bratwurst and Salzkartoffeln, with Rote Grütze for dessert._

_You play dirty, Professor,_ Warren thought, unfurling his metallic wings. _But fine, I'll be back in time for dinner. Only because I know Kurt knows his way around deutsche Küche and that Wanda can keep Peter in check enough that he won't ruin all the food again._

_I'll let them know they can expect you in attendance_ , Xavier thought, before his mind retreated. 

Several mighty flaps took Warren up above the mansion, and he glided for a moment, circling, before started beating his wings again, diving higher, higher, higher, till the mansion was a speck below him and the sun was harsh on his back (he was no Icarus), high above the realm of the eagles, rocketing in the airspace of jets faster than the speed of sound (only Quicksilver could go faster, only spaceships could higher). 

A shout of exhilaration left his lips as he flew faster, tucking his wings close to his body as he rolled repeatedly, zooming faster, before throwing his wings out, slowing, gliding, nothing but elation on his face and nothing but the air to support him.

* * *

Wand supported Peter as they walked out of the Weapon Plus facility, the bullets from the guards' guns hitting only Wanda's forcefield, the facility caving in on itself right behind them. 

When they finally made it out, very last of the place crumbled into rubble, but Wanda still turned around and wound her fingers into a fist, folding the entire place out of existence, leaving nothing but a peaceful meadow. 

Peter collapsed against her in a fit of giggles. “I can't believe they were so stupid!” he said hysterically, hiccuping and shaking in her arms. 

“Yeah, it was pretty stupid of them to bring me right to you, wasn't it?” she said, lips curling, watching as the Blackbird touched down in the field where the Weapon Plus facility used to be. “I even beat the X-Men here.” 

Peter tilted his head on her shoulder to see the door of the Blackbird open, the X-Men piling out in confusion, Wolverine wrinkling his nose and growling. They stopped when they saw Peter and Wanda standing there at the edge of the woods. 

Peter snickered. “Bet you they think you're an angel,” he murmured, closing his eyes. 

“No, _I'm_ Angel,” said a voice, and Peter opened his eyes to see a shirtless guy standing next to them, curly blond hair and metal wings, frowning at the X-Men's plane. “What the hell did you _do_ , Frau? One moment I'm trapped in a cell I can't cut my way out of, and the next out I'm out here standing in a fucking _meadow._ ” 

“You may have the wings,” Peter said, smirking, arms tightening around his sister's waist, “but _she's_ the one who performs miracles.” 

The X-Men were hurrying over to them, and Wanda asked, “We're safe with the X-Men, right?”

“Uh-huh,” Peter murmured into her shoulder. “Why ya ask?” 

And then Wanda was crumpling to her knees, pulling him into her lap and sobbing heavily, tears streaming down her face as she clutched her brother to her. “You absolute _dummkopf!”_

“Wanda,” Peter murmured, and she sobbed all the harder, and then Angel was kneeling next to her, confused and trying to calm her down in quiet German, and then the X-Men were gathered around them, even more confused. 

“What the hell happened here?!” Scott and Logan demanded and growled at the same time, respectively. 

And then Scott was asking Wanda, “Who are you?!” and Logan was asking Peter, “Why the hell didn't ya tell us you had a sister?!” and Kurt was looking at Angel with guilt on his face and trying to apologize, and Angel was still trying to get Wanda to stop crying, and Wanda was still sobbing, and Hank was trying to see how badly Peter was injured, and Jean looked overwhelmed, and Storm looked furious, and Professor X was trying to get everyone to calm down. 

And Peter just cracked open an eye and said, “Well, _this_ is awkward,” and then promptly passed out.

* * *

Wanda sat in the back of the jail cell, her wrists handcuffed behind her, giggling drunkenly. 

The police officer sighed. “Do you have someone to call to come get you and pay your bail, miss?” he asked. 

A pause, and then, “I have a brother,” she said, and rattled off his phone number even in her drunken state. 

Hardly had the police officer called her brother and explained the situation when there was a breeze and a silver-haired man was standing there, making the police officer nearly yell in surprise. 

The man looked at his giggling sister and sighed. “Wanda, darling, you should know better than to drink and drive,” he said, clucking his tongue, before turning to the officer and saying, “Thank you so much for pulling her over and not letting her get into a car accident. I don't know what I would do if that happened.” 

The man reached into his pocket, flipped through his wallet, pulled out the bail money and handed it to the stunned officer. “There's your bail money. I trust you won't tell anyone what you've seen tonight. I mean, it's not like anyone would believe you if you did. They would think that you were the one on drugs.” 

And then the handcuffs clattered to the floor at his feet, and the silver-haired man and the drunk woman were gone, along with the bail money that had been in the man's hand. 

He scratched his head. What the hell was that? He was pretty sure he wasn't high on anything…

* * *

“Peter, what the hell?! Stop being so annoying!”

_I can't help it! I'm fucking bored!_

“God, Peter, stop bothering me! Don't you ever shut up?!”

_I've been silent for an entire fucking MINUTE! Do you know how long that is for me?! I just memorized the entire song “The Elements” by Tom Lehrer and ran down to the beach and I found this really cool seashell and I wanted to show you because I thought you liked that sort of thing, but whatever, I guess you don't appreciate cool stuff._

“Peter, stop stealing my stuff!” 

_There's nothing else to DO in this boring place. Please, tell me, what ELSE am I supposed to be doing with my time? There's only so many times one can read and reorganize all the books in the mansion. Would you rather I stole from someone else? A convenience store, maybe? A museum? Think I could steal the Captain America suit from the Smithsonian?_

“You need to slow down, Peter. Take deep, slow breaths. Calm yourself.” 

_I'm very calm. My breathing and heartrate just happen to be like a zillion times faster than yours._

“You need to have patience, Peter.” 

_I AM PATIENT. I'VE BEEN WAITING FOR AN ENTIRE FUCKING **HOUR** DO YOU EVEN KNOW HOW LONG THAT IS FOR ME?! I TAUGHT MYSELF HOW TO PLAY THE CHOPIN-GODOWSKY ETUDES ON THE PIANO IN LESS TIME THAN I'VE BEEN WAITING!_

“You need to listen to me, Peter! You have to follow orders!” 

_Well excuse ME for moving so fast that I can't even hear what you're saying, because in the time it took you to give whatever order you're talking about, I just disassembled an entire fucking Sentinel, saved twenty-seven civilians, and kept you from getting shot. Wow I'm SORRY I didn't hear what you were saying, would you rather be dead?!_

“Control yourself, Peter!” 

_Oh yeah? Like you can control your eye-blasts? You're not the only one who can't turn their powers off, you know._

* * *

_“Hit 'em hard and hit 'em fast!”_ Cyclops yelled, blasting one of the many government-created superhumans they were fighting. “ _Wanda, where the hell is Quicksilver?”_

“Beast is still trying to resuscitate him,” Scarlet Witch said, hands held out in front of her as she shot hexes at the mob of soldiers, keeping them away from Beast and the unconscious Quicksilver. “But when he _wakes up_ —”

“He's not _going_ to wake up, Scarlet Wtich,” one of the soldiers snarled, a woman with scaled skin and ram horns. “Don't you know we have a _speedster_ of our _own?_ ” 

“What's the matter, Cyclops?” the other speedster taunted, a woman with dark skin, wearing a white suit, goggles, and helmet, darting around Scott as she punched him. “No good with moving targets?”

Cyclops tried to reach for his visor, but the speedster kicked him in the face.

“C'mon! C'mon!” she taunted, a smirk on her lips. “I thought they said you were fast!” 

Quicksilver's eyes snapped open. 

And then he was out of Beast's grip, grabbing the other speedster by her shoulders and pushing her away from Cyclops, snarling, “Touch him again and I _take your head off._ ” He punched her in the face. “Don't pretend you can't hear me, bitch, I can tell you've been kitted-out.”

“Oh, I can _hear_ you, Quicksilver,” she said, engaging him in hand-to-hand combat, their fists and feet flying. “And I've been looking forward to this since they first sliced me open. We know all about _you_ and that strange _sister fixation_ you seem to have.” She smirked as punched her in the jaw especially viciously. 

“What's the _matter_ , Pietro? Didn't daddy ever tell you he loved you or something?” she taunted as Quicksilver grabbed her by the collar, snarling in her face. “Speed _we're_ moving at, I could blow Cyclops up just by _touching_ this dolt.”

“You want _fast_ , Hurricane?” Quicksilver growled, picking her up and running with her held in front of him by her collar. “ _I'll_ give you fast. What kind of _limits_ did they take you up to back home? Mach _five?_ Mach _ten?_ ” A supercilious snarl. “I was hitting _those_ numbers when I still had _pimples!_ ”

“P-Pietro, _please!_ ” she begged, closing her eyes as he ran even faster. 

“Feel your bones rumbling like you're riding a f _reight train?_ ” Quicksilver asked, dark eyes glinting behind his goggles as she started coming apart in front of him. “That's _molecules_ dancing—that's what happens when you _threaten_ my _friends!_ ”

And then she was no more, the speed having torn her very atoms apart. 

Back at the battleground, Cyclops hit the ground from being kicked by Hurricane, letting out an _“Ugh!”_

“Hank, what happened?” Wanda asked, looking over her shoulder at where Hank still had his hands poised above the empty air where Quicksilver had been. “Where's Peter?” 

Several feet away, Cyclops looked up to see Quicksilver standing bent over with his hands on his knees, panting. 

“Quicksilver! Stop _messing around_ and give me a _hand_ here, huh?” Cyclops said, pushing himself to his feet. 

Quicksilver turned his head, sweat dripping from his face in rivulets, dark eyes looking at him like, _Are you fucking kidding me?_

But saying, “Do I _look_ like I was messing around, to you?” or, “I just saved your fucking life, you ingrate,” would have taken too much time, so Quicksilver just straightened, wiping the sweat from his face with a shaking hand and then dove back into the fight.

* * *

Peter rubbed his thumb over the card with Magneto's number. 

_“You're a very powerful mutant, Quicksilver,”_ Erik had said _“I know what what that feels like, to be more powerful than anyone knows, and to be held back by peoples' limited expectations. If you ever get tired of it at Xavier's school, that's my number. You are always free to join my Brotherhood. We could use a powerful mutant like you, and we'd treat you with the respect you deserve.”_

Fuck the X-Men. They didn't want him around, anyway. 

Peter picked up his huge, clunky cellphone, dialing the number, waiting impatiently the ages and ages the phone was ringing. 

_“This is Magneto.”_

“Give me an address,” Peter said, crumpling the card in his hand. “I'll be there in an eye-blink.” 

There was a smile in Magneto's voice as he gave Peter the address of the Brotherhood's base. Which was actually an island in the Indian Ocean called Genosha that was its own sovereign country. Because yes, apparently the Brotherhood of Mutants really had taken over an entire country, albeit not a particularly large country, but still. “Welcome to—”

Peter was standing in front of him, silver hair settling into place. 

“—the Brotherhood of Mutants,” Magneto finished, clapping the speedster on the shoulder, looking genuinely pleased. “We're happy you decided to join us.” 

“Yeah yeah, save me the welcome speech,” Peter said, crossing his arms and looking up at the Master of Magnetism. “When do I get to do stuff?” 

Apparently that was the right thing to say, because Magneto looked even more pleased. “Come inside,” he said, making a grand gesture to his castle. “I have a job you can do that I believe you'll enjoy. First, though, I'd like to introduce you to the other members of the team.”

* * *

On the other side of the line, Peter could hear Wanda crying. 

“Wanda?!” he asked, panicking, jumping to his feet and pacing the castle hall. “Wanda, what's wrong?! Where are you?!” 

“I… I lost control of my powers, Pete,” she said, and he could hardly understand her through her sobs. “I lost control of my powers and, and all the cameras on the set were r-ruined, and, and now they all know I'm a mutant and someone called the p-police and I can hear the sirens, P-Pete, I'm hiding but they'll find me, and l-lock me up, and oh god, Peter, th-they all know, and I'm never going to be able to act again, n-nobody will hire me—”

“Wanda, take a deep breath,” he finally managed to interrupt. “Just stay calm. Tell me where you are. I'll get you out of there.” 

Almost as soon as the location was out of her mouth, Wanda looked up to see Peter standing in front of her, a sheen of sweat on his skin and concern written all over his face. 

“I'm here, Wanda,” he said, kneeling down beside her and picking her up, an arm around her back and an arm around her knees. “I'll take you somewhere safe, okay?” 

Wanda nodded, burying her face in his chest and sobbing as she heard the sirens getting closer. 

And then the sirens were gone, and she was sitting on a bed, Peter's arms around her. “You're safe now,” he promised her. “I won't let anything happen to you.” A pause as he ran his fingers gently through her auburn hair as she buried her face in his chest. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

* * *

Once Wanda had calmed down, Peter led her to a large, high-ceilinged room, a TV on the wall, four large couches around, several mutants sitting there. 

“Sorry to bust this on you so soon after you've just had an incredibly emotional experience,” Peter told her as the other mutants looked up at them in surprise, “but I'm kinda hoping to distract you,” which made Wanda laugh slightly, rubbing at the tears dried on her cheeks. 

“Everyone, this is my sister, Wanda,” Peter said, looking at the others and wrapping his arm protectively around Wanda's waist. “If you so much as look at her funny, either she will blast you with your hexes, or I will punch you in the face very fast, and either way you will be very deeply regret your actions. Even you, Sabretooth.” 

The large man with amber eyes and long, scraggly blond hair and wearing brown pants and a whit muscle shirt gave a nod and a fanged grin, waving clawed fingers. 

“That's Victor Creed, aka Sabretooth,” Peter said to Wanda. “He's an alright guy unless you mention Logan, aka Wolverine of the X-Men, so don't. Also, he has a healing factor, so if he bothers him you can just throw him in the ocean or kill him, it's okay, he always comes back.” 

He ignored when Sabretooth growled at him, nodding instead to the man with jaw-length brown hair, eerie red and black eyes, dark jeans, a purple shirt, and a long brown coat. “That's Remy LeBeau, aka Gambit. He has a molecular energy acceleration here that allows him to create explosions, kind of like what I can do, except he can actually imbue objects with the energy and throw them to make things blow up. He always wins at card games, though you might be able to beat him because of that probability thing you do.” 

That made Gambit raise his eyebrows with interest. “Bonjour, ma chérie,” he nodded, smiling. He looked like he was about to get up and come over to kiss her hand or something like that, but Peter glared at him, and he remained where he was. 

“He's kind of a womanizer, so be careful,” Peter continued. “Also, his ability to tap energy gives him a degree of superhuman speed, strength, reflexes, durability, the works—though nowhere near what I have—so if he bothers you you can throw him around a bit, too. Just don't kill him, because he doesn't come back to life like Creed does.” 

Gambit started protesting, but Peter talked right over him, nodding instead at man with blue eyes and strawberry blond hair that stuck up from his fingers running through it. He was grinning and playing with a lighter, the flames dancing in impossible shapes. 

“That's St. John Allerdyce, aka Pyro,” Peter said, and Pyro waved distractedly. 

“'Allo.” 

“He's Australian, so he talks funny,” Peter said, making Wanda snort slightly. “He can manipulate fire. And he's kind of crazy. But he has normal human physiology, so be kinda careful with him.”

Peter nodded at the woman with green eyes, long brown hair with a white streak, wearing dark green from head to toe to the tips of her fingers, hood pulled down over her face. “That's Anna Marie, but don't call her that, she hates it. She goes by Rogue. She absorbs people's powers through skin contact, so don't let her touch you. Also, she's from the American South, so she also talks funny.” 

“Careful, sugah, or Ah'll break that pretty little face o' yours,” Rogue said, tilting her head to glare at him. 

Peter ignored her. “Also, Tabitha Smith, aka Boom-Boom, Lance Alvers, aka Avalanche, and Raven Darkholme, aka Mystique, are around here somewhere. Tabitha has short blond hair and can create balls of plasma that blow up. Normal human physiology. Lance Alvers, brunette, surly teenager, can create earthquakes. Normal human physiology. 

“You can't miss Mystique when she's in her normal form, 'cause she's blue with yellow eyes and orange hair, and she likes to walk around naked in that form, I guess 'cause she kinda has scales and stuff. But she's a shapeshifter, so she could be anyone, anytime, so you never truly know who you're talking to when she's around.” 

Wanda had her lips pursed. “And these are all your teammates?” 

“Yep! Jolly bunch, huh?” Peter said, grinning slightly. “Also, there's Erik Lensherr, aka Magneto, who's the team leader. Tall guy, very serious-looking, likes to wear a cape and dorky helmet everywhere.”

“And he's yer father,” Sabretooth said, examining his clawed fingernails. 

“Yes, thank you for that,” Peter said, sighing as Wanda's eyes widened in shock. “I forgot to mention that Sabretooth there has heightened senses, so he can always hear you, and also he can tell with his nose that we're related because we have the same blood-scent or something weird and creepy like that.” 

Wanda's mouth closed, and her shocked expression turned to one of amusement. “What you forgot to mention was that Sabretooth has heightened senses, not that our _father_ is running this team?” 

“Father?” Erik asked, stepping into the hall, raising a dark eyebrow, Wanda looking at him with wide eyes. 

Erik froze when he was her, his mouth dropping open slightly. “You… you look like…” his voice dropped to hardly a breath. “You…”

Peter hummed, tilting his head, expression perfectly innocent. “Did I forget to tell either of you that we're all related? Yeah, Wanda, this is our dad. Erik, I'm your son, and this is my sister, Wanda, who is thereby your daughter.” 

Erik and Wanda looked stunned. 

The mutants on the couch could not stop laughing. 

Peter just grinned sheepishly. “Now you know?”

* * *

“Reinforcements appearing at the _southwest_ of the facility, dear brother,” Wanda said as she stood on the roof, looking out over the grounds, hands on her hips. “Do you want to neutralize them or shall I?”

“Just follow the plan and make your way towards the missile silos, Wanda,” came Pietro's voice over the comms. “By the time sound carries these words to your eardrums, I should have taken care of them _anyway._ ” 

“Show-off!” Wanda said, laughing slightly as she saw the soldiers suddenly fall to the ground, all tied up. 

Pietro was making his through a room filled with criss-crossing laser-triggers, avoiding them with acrobatics superior to anything that could be done by the finest human athlete. “Would—”

Jump.

“—you really—”

Flip, forward-tuck.

“—have me—”

Hand-spring.

“—any other—”

Vault, tucked forward. 

“—way?” 

Run, ducked low, through the circular door, hit the button. 

He was already out of there by the time Wanda had laughed and said, “Never, Pietro. Never.”

* * *

Wanda found Pietro sitting at the edge of Genosha, legs dangling over the cliff-face, a hand rubbing his shoulder. 

She sat down next to him, feet joining his dangling hundreds of feet above the ravenous ocean waves. 

“Does it still hurt?” she asked, fingers tracing over his shoulder where she knew the scar from Magneto impaling him lay dark on his pale skin.

He shook his head. “It's long since healed.” 

“But it still bothers you,” she said, and watched him stare straight ahead toward where the blue water met blue sky at the horizon, saying nothing. 

She loved the way the ocean breeze blew his silver hair away from his face, a cruelly gentle parody of when he was running. He always seemed so beautifully tragic when he was standing still. 

“Poor Pietro,” she sighed, leaning her head on his shoulder, interlacing her fingers with his. “All you want is for your father to be proud of you.” 

He stiffened impossibly further. He was always so tense, even when he seemed to be relaxed, always ready to run away. 

He should have been a predator, but he was nothing but a scared little jackrabbit. 

And she had done this to him. 

She traced a finger along the back of his pale hand. “Pietro, my pet. Does it really matter so much to you?” 

He was vibrating against her, practically quivering. “He doesn't have to treat me like I'm dirt beneath his fingernails,” Pietro said, every word painfully slow and controlled, like it was taking all his focus to force his thoughts to an understandable speed. “He sets me tasks that seem designed for me to fail, then criticizes me in front of the others.” His head lowered, silver hair falling into his face. “What does he expect from me, Wanda?” he said, voice quiet, shaking. 

Wanda hummed, placing her hand over his. “Don't be sad, darling. It doesn't matter what he thinks. All we need is each other.” Her voice lowered, her mouth breathing warm air over his ear, his hand in her own. “I'm here for you. From now until forever.” 

“Then why, Wanda,” he said, and his voice was choked. “Why did you leave me? I waited for you. For years, I waited.”

She sat up, looking at him. His face was turned away. Gently, she took his chin, forcing him to turn his head to look at her, dark eyes meeting green. 

“I had to protect you,” she said, a hand against his cheek. He leaned into the touch. “I didn't have control over my powers, and I'd nearly killed you. Waiting there next to your hospital bed, waiting for you to wake up from your coma, I made myself a promise. I needed to leave, and I couldn't come back until I had full control.” Her thumb brushed across his cold skin. “It would have killed me if I'd hurt you like that again.” 

“I forgave you,” Pietro said, and there was a keen in his voice, a desperation in his gaze as his dark eyes searched hers. “I never blamed you for what happened.” 

“I know,” Wanda whispered, looking down. Her thumb stilled on his cheek. “That's why I had to leave.” 

“You were so angry, Wanda,” Pietro said, and she didn't dare meet his broken gaze. “I thought you hated me. I thought that was why you left. I thought I'd done something wrong.”

“No, never,” Wanda said, shaking her head. Her bottom lip trembled. “I never hated you, Pietro. I loved you. I never stopped loving you. But I had to make you think I hated you so you wouldn't follow me.” 

“You have no idea how much I hated myself for making you leave,” Pietro whispered. “How many nights I couldn't sleep, thinking about everything I did that I thought drove you away, all the things I could have done differently to make you stay. All the nights I spent stealing random shit just to give myself something to do so I could stop thinking, stop hurting.” 

“I'm sorry, Pietro,” she said, looking up at him with tears glittering in her green eyes, moving her arms around his neck. “I'm sorry.” 

There was no hatred in his eyes; no anger, no bitterness. “I forgive you, Wanda,” he said, and all that was in his gaze was a softness. 

Her heart thumped, and she pulled him closer, her lips on his, a hand in his beautiful, silver hair. 

His kissed her back, his arms around her waist, as they ignored the rest of the world around them, only coming up for air when Genosha's alarms started wailing. 

“The X-Men are here,” he said, catching his breather quicker than she did. “They'll try to destroy everything we've been working for.” 

“Well, we can't let them do that, now can we?” Wanda smiled, standing and pulling her brother to his feet, before winding her arms around his neck again. 

“No,” he agreed, one arm around her back, the other under her knees, “we can't.” 

He ran back to the castle where Magneto was waiting, setting his sister down just outside the door. 

“You were wrong,” he told her, not meeting her eyes. “I'm not doing this for Magneto. I'm doing this for you.” 

He pushed open the door, and they walked into the room hand-in-hand.

* * *

“Poor Pietro,” she sighed, leaning her head on his shoulder, interlacing her fingers with his. “All you want is for your father to be proud of you.” 

He stiffened impossibly further. He was always so tense, even when he seemed to be relaxed, always ready to run away. 

He should have been a predator, but he was nothing but a scared little jackrabbit. 

He always had been. Even when they were younger. 

She traced a finger along the back of his pale hand. “Pietro, my pet. Are you scared you might open your mouth, and feel the horror if nothing comes out?” 

He was vibrating against her, practically quivering. “He doesn't have to treat me like I'm dirt beneath his fingernails,” Pietro said, every word painfully slow and controlled, like it was taking all his focus to force his thoughts to an understandable speed. “He sets me tasks that seem designed for me to fail, then criticizes me in front of the others.” His head lowered, silver hair falling into his face. “What does he expect from me, Wanda?” he said, voice quiet, shaking. 

Wanda hummed, placing her hand over his. “Oh, darling. All eyes on you, we're watching you.” Her voice lowered, her mouth breathing warm air over his ear, his hand in her own. “It's too bad you're too stuck to move. Too bad you don't know what to do.” 

Genosha's alarm started wailing, and Pietro jerked his head away, looking out to the horizon. Always the jumpy little jackrabbit. She pitied him, sometimes, how obviously vulnerable he was even with the devil-may-car front he wrapped around himself like an armor that didn't even go skin-deep.

“The X-Men are here,” he said, and his voice was dead with nerves.

“I know,” she said, taking his chin and guiding him to look at her again. She leaned forward, kissing his lips softly. “This is it, 'Tro,” she murmured, a force in her words. “No time left to play it safe, no time to bend.” 

“I know,” he said, and she scoffed.

“Fake a brave face, I see right through you,” she said, watching him cower away from her gaze. 

“I'm not a coward,” he said, quiet, defiant, but he wouldn't meet her eyes. 

Wanda stood, tossing long auburn hair out of her face. “The worst mistake you'll ever make is trying to blend,” she said, and started walking back to the castle where she knew Magneto was waiting. “Be careful in this upcoming fight, Pietro. You better up the ante, up the drive. You don't want to mess up, now do you?”

Pietro didn't move, but she knew he'd be there in time. 

He always was.

And she knew, even as she walked away, that for her, he always would be. 

No matter how many times she left him.

* * *

Thrice struck with lightning, and Pietro was lying on the ground facedown in the snow, burnt and steaming as the raindrops hit him.

“Pietro? Pietro please…” Wanda said, kneeling next to him, taking his hand. “You're the only one who can do this, darling. The only one fast enough to snatch that wretched _belt_ of his...” 

“I _can't_ , Wanda,” he gasped out, trying vainly to push himself up to his hands and knees, a task made more difficult by the pouring rain. “I can't even _stand up_ any more.”

“He _hurt_ me, Pietro,” Wanda said, voice trembling slightly as Pietro managed to push himself to his knees. “I was trying to _disable_ him and he hit me with _Wolverine._ ”

“He _hurt_ you?” Pietro growled, voice laced with fury.

“He _really_ hurt me,” Wanda said. “Do you know how _heavy_ Wolverine is? He almost broke my _nose_.”

Pietro's face was murderous as he looked toward the crazy man floating in the sky, bellowing and striking out at the X-Men with hammer and lightning. 

And then he was no longer by Wanda's side, racing through the snow and rain, dodging the lightning bolts that earlier had struck him and brought him to the ground, leaping dozens of meters into the air, unclasping the super-ionized man's belt as he sped by him in the air. 

“Quicksilver to _anyone_ ,” Pietro said as he tumbled through the air, belt in his grip. “Catch.”

“Ah gotcha, sugah,” Rogue said as she caught him in the air. They watched as the man, powerless, fell dozens of meters to the snow-covered ground, yelling either for or at his father before hitting the ground.

When he'd finished vomiting, he looked up to find the X-Men standing around him, murder on their faces. 

“You—” Logan growled, stalking forward, adamantium claws glinting.

“Let him be, Logan,” Professor Xavier said, his wheelchair levitating over the snow as he came to look down at the large man kneeling in a puddle of his own stomach contents. “He's done.” 

Behind the circle of other X-Men, Wanda ran over as Rogue set Pietro down, catching him when his knees started to buckle. 

“Thank you, Pietro,” she whispered against his neck, carefully taking the belt from his weakening grip. “You saved me. You saved us all.” 

His arms wrapped weakly around her waist, leaning his head on her shoulder, body trembling with pain and exhaustion. “He hurt you. And I promised I would protect you.”

* * *

The fight between the X-Men and the Brotherhood was chaos. 

Crumbling buildings, the air filled with dust and flying debris, cars and hunks of concrete chucked through the air by those with telekenesis or superstrength. Beams of colorful light, thick smoke, so many explosions. The screeching of metal. Yells of attempted strategy, shouted insults, pained screams. 

In the middle of it all, Magneto and Professor X, and the fighting wouldn't stop until one of them was dead.

Wanda laughed as she touched the blood streaming heavily from the three deep slash marks across her abs, the scarlet only a few shades away from that of her outfit. “Is this how you feel inside?” she asked her brother, even as she fell to her knees, feeling lightheaded. “Torn in the middle like you can't decide, can't step up to save your life.” 

There was a breeze, and then Pietro's steady hands were wrapping her torso in bandages, slowing the flow of blood. 

“I'm not afraid to fall,” he said once he was done, and when he looked up his eyes were adamant-hard. “You can watch me lose it all.” 

He stood up, straightening his shoulders, chin up, dark eyes narrowed as he appraised the chaos in front of him. He shifted his weight, a starving wolf preparing to give chase, sending her a final glance over his shoulder, and his lips moved.

“Watch me.” 

But he was gone, too fast to be seen, before she'd even registered the words.

* * *

_“GuysthisisreallybadholyfuckIthinkeveryoneisdeadtherearebodieseverywhereandsomuchbloodholyshitthisisreallybadtheywerelikeeatenIthinkitsthatthinghaveyouguyseverheardofPredatorXIthinkitscomingforus,_ ” Peter said, speaking so fast his words were all compressed together into one slurred sound. 

“Whoa, man, calm down,” Scott said, putting a hand on the speedster's shoulder, calming his shaking. “We can't understand you, Peter. Slow down. What happened?” 

Peter's dark eyes were wide, afraid, dilated in the dark of the abandoned subway tunnel they were hiding in. _“We're not safe here. It's coming.”_

* * *

“Do you think you're safe, frozen in place?” Pietro said, appearing in front of her wearing the expression of a killer and the pallor of the dying. He glanced behind him, fists clenching. Blood dripping. Magneto's helmet was under his arm. “Run for cover just in case.” 

Precious seconds were ticking by. 

“I'd never make it alone,” she said, holding out her hand. Her lips curled, but her eyes were desperate. “Come with me?” 

His weight shifted. Blood dripped. “I should go back, finish what I—”

“Please,” she said, and hardly was the word out of her mouth before his bloody hand was in hers. “Take me away from here.” 

“As you wish, sister,” came his quiet voice, and then there was nothing but the rush of wind and the blinding white of all the colors of the world blurring together.

And then she was in a hospital waiting room, and Pietro was nowhere to be found. 

She wanted to scream. So she did.

It wasn't till an hour later, once she was all stitched up and forced to rest in a hospital bed, that her brother collapsed next to her, breathing fast and shallow in a growing pool of blood, his costume in tatters. 

“Pietro!” she cried, swinging her legs out of the bed and kneeling in the blood beside him, rolling him over onto his back. She placed a hand to his chest, a scarlet glow around her fingers. 

“What are you doing?” he gasped out, eyelids dragging open as he struggled to focus on her. 

“Increasing the probability that you'll survive this,” she grit out, and he gave a few little chuckles that quickly turned into pained gasps. 

“Don't think… I'm going to…” his eyes fluttered closed. “Sorry…” 

“No, you're not going to die!” she said, a pain even worse than the claw slashes erupting in her chest as she shook his shoulders, his head lolling limply. “Wake up, Pietro!” she shouted at him, shaking him harder, tears streaming down her face. _“WAKE UP!”_

* * *

You are awake.

You think. 

You think this is what being awake feels like. Flashes of images before your eyes, pulses of pain behind them. 

The images are sharp at the point directly where your eyes are looking, and everything around that blurs and you can't quite focus on it. 

You're distantly aware of your body moving, but it feels disconnected from you, like you're behind a pane of glass and watching the feeling of your blood pumping and the air moving in your lungs from behind that glass, and you can kind of feel it all moving past you but not through you. 

You think that maybe that's something to be concerned about, except you forget that thought a moment after you have it. 

You're some place different, you think, but you don't know how you got there. You're not even sure of the difference, really, but you think that you're not in the same place. You think your body moved but you don't remember feeling it. 

You're distracted by something shiny.

Metal, right. That's metal? You don't think metal moves on its own, as it shifts in your vision from the sharp spot to the blur of vague colors and motions 

And then you're looking at a man, and there is a hand in a black sleeve and black glove stretched in front of you and gripping the man's neck. You can't see who the arm's attached to, so maybe it's yours. 

You wonder what the arm is doing and why it appears to be doing so without your knowledge. Do your legs and arms think for themselves? 

You watch as the arm picks the man into the air and throws him out of the sharp spot into the blur, and then the sharp spot is filled with different features, a face that is softer and younger and prettier with a halo of red around it, you think but you're not really sure why you thought of this face is pretty because you're not quite sure what that means, and you don't know what a halo is, and you're not quite sure that the color is actually red. Is it orange?

A black fist is stretching out from where you can't see it coming from, and you think that maybe it's going to snap the neck of the girl in front of you and you think maybe you shouldn't do that because it feels wrong, somehow, in some way that you can't define.

You try to yank the arm back towards you, and then you're just curious to see if you can control it.

The arm slows down, fighting against you, but ultimately it wins and you're left feeling oddly empty with the feeling that you lost to something that shouldn't be able to win because it doesn't have a brain. 

It strikes you, then, that maybe there's something else beyond the glass that has control, that must be like you, somehow, and that thought brings a sense of having forgotten something important but having no idea what it is. 

You can only watch and feel discomforted as more people flash sharp in front of you only to fall into the blur that you think maybe wouldn't be a blur if you could just focus, but you can't, your vision disconnected from you in a similar way to your body.

It takes everything you have just to slow down that hand to a speed and strength you think is probably nonlethal, but you're not really sure. But it takes all your effort and you feel like you're straining, but the glass feels embedded somewhere in your forehead between the world and wherever you are outside of it. Or within it, you're not sure.

Time is moving in explicable ways, coiling and stretching around you like a slinky. 

The slinky is traveling down a stairway of glass, going down, down, down, coiling and stretching, coiling and stretching, coiling and stretching.

You think, vaguely, strangely, that the glass is some kind of protection, and you shouldn't break it or bad things will happen. 

Something sharp zig-zags jagged within you, striking somewhere you think might be your chest, if you could feel that part of you, which you can't. But the feeling seems to hit somewhere below you and reverberate up to you, still. 

Something tells you it's a bad idea to try to break the glass. That it's necessary. 

Something else, that feels visceral and angry, rears it head, seemingly from within what you currently feel is what form you're contained in. Something that doesn't want to be caged. Something like wind, but with teeth, and there's a cold press of a blade into your hand. 

It stings, and you look to see a reflection of dark, flashing eyes,silver hair ruffling, lips pulled away sharp from teeth that are also too sharp. 

He looks familiar, and you think you know him. Or knew him. Like a best friend from childhood that you part ways with, not meeting again until you both have jobs and families. 

Someone you used to know intimately, but you've both been changed by time. 

_Wake up, Peter_ , the lips move, and the blade slides further into your hand. 

You thought you were already awake. You think this is different from being asleep, somehow. Not as dark and not as filled with a lurking, undefinable fear.

Beyond the glass, the hand extending from a shoulder you can't see is lifting a man whose hair appeared to have gotten up, curled into a ball like an armadillo and rolled away, leaving nothing but a smooth scalp.

What the fuck is an armadillo. 

The blade is no longer in your hand, but pressed to the side of your face, and you feel something wet dripping down your cheek as your head is slowly forced to the side. 

There's someone else in your vision, and her face is fierce and she's entirely surrounded by a glow of red. 

Maybe more scarlet than red, except you're pretty sure it's just a fancier-sounding synonym, not like the difference between orange and red, which is a matter of fact, but a matter of style. 

There's a pulse, a feeling of something striking from the top of your head and lancing all the way down to the toes that you're suddenly aware that you have. 

_Wake up_ , moves the lips of the thing with the knife pressed into your face, the thing you think might be some kind of reflection, some kind of ghost that had been folded away into your shadow. _For her._

But you don't know who she is. 

The blade is driven into your chest, and you gasp, eyes flying wide. _She's everything in the world to you, loser._

Who am I? you wonder.

_Break the glass and find out._

The grin is sharp, and riles you like it always has. 

_I dare you._

The knife is left in your gut, and you pull it free covered in scarlet. 

Something about the feel of it in your hand feels right as you maneuver it so the blood-slick blade is between your first and middle finger, and you drive it into the glass, the scarlet running through the surface in lightning cracks. 

The glass shatters, along with the weird bright light that you didn't notice until the darkness and pain crashed over you, a tsunami of memories ripping violently through you like high-voltage electricity. 

Suddenly you're a young boy again, drowning in the nightmares and crying for your sister, except that this time the nightmares are real, and your sister can't protect you.

* * *

It all happened so fast. 

One moment, the X-Men were striding to the Blackbird to fly to the government base that the hirsute wolf-man had described.

The next, Peter was standing there, blocking their path, dressed in a black suit, black goggles, black half-mask over his nose and mouth and chin, only his silver hair to show that it was him. 

Erik reached for the metal around him, but in the next moment he was lifted up and thrown across the room, into the wall.

The other X-Men were all on the floor, either out cold or dead, who knew, and through the throbbing in his head—there's hot blood flowing down the back of his skull, his neck, and he's probably concussed—Erik could barely make out Peter frozen in the hangar, Charles lifted up by his neck. 

Why did Peter stop? 

Why did Peter take them down in the first place?

_What had those bastards done to him?_

Charles had a hand to his temple, a look of concentration on his face, blood leaking from his nose. 

And then Charles was falling to the ground, and Peter was gone, and Erik tried to stand, only for everything to fall into blackness.

* * *

You feel your sharp-grinning shadow slide back into you, the shattered and scattered pieces clicking into place, reassembling what had been broken. 

The child is huddled on the floor of the hallway, crying, and you kneel down in front of him, a hand on his shoulder.

He looks up, dark eyes wide, terrified, hurting. The look is familiar, too familiar, and it makes you feel sick. 

You don't flinch as you slip the switch knife from your back pocket, flip it open, and slit the child's throat, too fast for the boy to even see it coming, only a split second of panic in his eyes before the life leaves them. 

You get up and keep walking, memories leaping out from the shadows to attack you, stab you, bite you, scratch you, whip you, punch you, kick you, shred you, tear you, electrocute you, cut you, try to re-break you. 

You let them.

The knife is in your back pocket, and you're waiting your turn.

* * *

“Why aren't they dead?!” Stryker yelled furiously, backhanding Weapon XII across the face, getting no reaction. Just dead, dark eyes in a pale, cold face. “You were supposed to _kill_ the X-Men! _Why aren't they dead?!”_

Weapon XII gave no response. 

Stryker stood back, panting in fury, glaring at the thoughtless weapon in front of him that somehow, nevertheless, hadn't followed orders. 

The boy was still in there somewhere, after all.

“Put him in the chair again,” Stryker said, watching as his men strapped Weapon XII into the chair, watching the thing's body twitch and convulse as electricity ripped through him, mouth open in a silent scream.

There was no point in gagging him when he never made any noise.

* * *

You're walking down the hallway, like you did in your childhood, but this time your feet are tracking blood behind you and the demons are cowering away from you, trying to retreat further into the shadows and corners.

You grin sharply. 

_Fear is a cage,_ you think, taking bloodied, agonizing step after bloodied, agonizing step, your spine straight and your shoulders square, _but pain doesn't have to be._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations:**  
>  _Bratwurst_ \- a type of sausage usually made of ground pork and spices  
>  _Salzkartoffeln_ \- potatoes boiled in salt water  
>  _Rote Grütze_ \- red fruit pudding, which is made with black and red currants, raspberries and sometimes strawberries or cherries cooked in juice with corn starch as a thickener. It is traditionally served with cream, but also is served with vanilla sauce, milk or whipped cream.  
>  _deutsche Küche_ \- German cuisine  
>  _Frau_ \- Woman  
>  _dummkopf_ \- idiot; fool


	5. Timewarp pt.IV

* * *

Timewarp (Sweet Dreams Are Made Of This ((don't) Wake Me Up (you dare)))  
pt.IV

* * *

“Peter can move at thousands of times the speed of sound,” Hank said, holding an icepack to his face. “And we need to somehow catch and defeat him.” 

“Gott sei mit uns,” Kurt said, eyes closed as he prayed. 

“We'll need help,” Charles said.

Erik scoffed. “Who else is out there that could possibly help us?” 

There was a mysterious smile on Charles's lips. “Her name is Wanda,” he said. “I found her with Cerebro when I was trying to Peter.” 

And then the door opened, and there was a woman standing there, auburn hair whipping around her, scarlet glowing in her eyes, around her hands, and Erik thought he was dreaming because she looked like Magda when she was young.

“Where is Peter?” she asked calmly, the scarlet energy swirling to a stop, her eyes fading to green as she stepped into the room. “Where is my brother?” 

Erik felt his breath catch and his mind freeze.

* * *

“Pietro, I'd like you to meet Emma Frost,” Magneto said, and Pietro could only stare, frozen in shock as he looked at her. “The other side has a telepath, so I thought it only fair that we had ours. She used to work with Shaw, but she's reformed now. Isn't that right, Emma?” 

“If you call working with Magneto's terrorist organization 'reformed,' then yes,” she said sweetly, before turning to Pietro with a saccharine smile on blue lips, blue eyes frosty and calculating. “Aren't you an interesting one, hm?” 

Dimly, Pietro remembered that telepaths tended to hate him because they couldn't read his mind, but mostly he couldn't stop openly staring at her outfit. 

Low half-top, showing a generous amount of cleavage, completely white. Low-rise pants, tight, completely white. Tall, lace-up high-heeled boots, completely white. A shimmering cape that came down to her calves, completely white. 

“My eyes are up here, darling,” Emma said. 

“Damn,” Pietro said, looking up to meet her eyes. “And people think _Wanda_ dresses like a pole dancer!” 

An amused smile curled Emma's lips. “Just wait until you meet _Psylocke_ , dear.”

* * *

The Brotherhood of Mutants and the X-Men were fighting. Again. 

Pietro was getting really sick and bored of this. Sometimes he felt like they were all, the Brotherhood and the X-Men, nothing but chess pieces in the chess games Erik and Charles played with each other instead of just yelling and hate-fucking like normal people. 

He really didn't enjoy being used as a piece in a couple old guys' game. 

But there he was, running around the X-Men, pushing them from behind, tripping them, being a nuisance but not a danger. 

Yeah, he'd left the X-Men, but that didn't mean he _hated_ them. He just didn't fit in there, really, and he thought their methods were ineffectual. 

But apparently they were still doing a pretty good job recruiting new mutants to fill up the ranks, Pietro thought, as a large bone spike shot slowly by in front of him. 

Huh. He hadn't seen that power before. 

In a moment he'd found the culprit and had the man pressed up against a brick wall, fist ready, only to freeze as he saw the man's face, dark eyes blowing wide. “Evan?!” 

Evan looked like he'd seen a ghost. “Peter?!” 

“I go by Pietro now, actually,” Pietro said, letting go of the man to take a step back, looking over his old high school acquaintance as he said, “Pietro was just kind of an Americanized nickname, you know? I outgrew the need for it.” Evan was taller, now, broader, more muscular, features more chiseled. But his hair was still blond, despite his dark skin.

Pietro could see now that Evan's hair was definitely _not_ dyed. Things suddenly made much more sense.

“You…” Evan said, still looking at him in astonishment, shaking his head and rubbing his eyes before opening them again, as if that would change what he was seeing. “You're alive.” 

Pietro gave him a confused look. “I'm feeling pretty alive, yeah. You thought I wasn't?” 

Evan's expression morphed into one of anger. “Dude, what happened to you?!” he shouted, fists clenching, bone spikes erupting out of the skin of his arms, his back. “That day you were sick and I found you getting totally beaten up, helped you find your sister, and then I never you saw you again! I tried to drop by your house to check on you, but the house was all boarded up!” His voice kept raising. _“I thought for sure you'd died!”_

“Nah, never died,” Pietro said, shaking his head. “We moved to a different part of the state after I got beat up like that, went to a different school. My sister got so mad about what happened to me that her powers kicked in, and she kind destroyed the inside of the house.” He shrugged. “My mom thought it best that we just get away from the area. I was sick for like a week, and then my powers kicked in.” 

“Do you even know how much I beat myself up, thinking that you'd died because I hadn't gotten there in time?!” Evan shouted at him, though the effect was somewhat lost when there were the sounds of mutants fighting each other all around them. Lots of yells and explosions to go around. “You got yourself really messed up! You could have at least visited and let me known you were okay, you jackass! _Twelve years!_ ” 

Evan took a breath, sighing as he leaned back against the brick wall, a hand to his face. “I thought you were dead for _twelve fucking years_ , man,” he said, quieter. “Why the hell didn't you tell me you were still alive?” He removed his hand from his face, looking at Pietro with an almost betrayed-looking expression. “I thought we were friends!” 

“You what?” Pietro blinked. He gestured between them, confused. “Dude, you thought we were friends?”

“Yeah I did!” Evan was yelling again. “Why do you think I hung out with you and stuck up for you?!” 

Pietro blinked again. Not that Evan could see him blink; the blink of an eye for a speedster was undetectable by even the fastest tech. 

“I thought you were only doing that to try to get close to me so you find something to incriminate me as more of a freak than everybody already knew I was,” Pietro said honestly. 

Evan looked like he'd been slapped in the face. “ _What?!_ ”

Suddenly everything made so much sense. 

“Nobody aside from my family had ever been nice to me before!” Pietro defended his idiotic past self. “What was I _supposed_ to think?!” 

“If we weren't friends, then why the hell did you defend me against those guys that time?!” Evan said, looking at a loss. 

“Because they were being discriminatory jerks,” Pietro said, the _duh_ evident in his tone even though he didn't say it. “I would have done the same for anyone. Bullies suck.” 

Evan just stared at him. “You honestly didn't think we were friends.” 

“No, I didn't,” Pietro said, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. God, people were so damn _slow_ sometimes. “We've been over that.” 

A sneer curled Evan's lips. “Fuck you, Peter!” 

“Pietro,” Pietro reminded him. “Or Quicksilver, if you'd prefer. That's my codename. Since I'm a speedster, and all, in case you didn't notice. I'm told sometimes people don't notice because I'm just that fast.” 

“You're alive, you're a mutant, and you're on the other team,” Evan said, shaking his head as he ran a dark hand through his blond hair. His expression was definitely hurting. “You're one of the bad guys!”

“We are not the bad guys!” Pietro said, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “Why do you X-Men types get all holier-than-though all the time?! We're all actually on the same team, people just haven't realized that yet.”

Evan was glowering at him, the bone spikes on his arms and back growing even larger, warningly.

“That's a disgusting power you got there,” Pietro told him, making a face. “Cool, but disgusting.”

Evan sent several spikes shooting at him, but Pietro easily dodged. 

“And you're a speedster,” Evan said, his tone quiet, almost musing to himself. “Guess that makes sense. You always _were_ fast.” 

“And you were always spikey,” Pietro shot back, having just run around the battle to see if there were any desperate situations, finding that there weren't and coming back, his mind not quite caught up with his mouth. When he considered what he just said, though, he amended, “Actually, you weren't, what am I saying.”

“I think the word you're looking for is 'sharp,'” Evan suggested, and there was a smirk pulling at his lips, which was the closest thing to a smile Pietro had yet seen on him. 

“You were always sharp?” Pietro asked, tapping his chin as he tried to think back to high school. Ugh, he really never thought about it that often. Not exactly the best time of his life. He'd basically forcibly forgotten everything from before he got his powers, as his powers were really the beginning of a new, much better life. “I don't know, I don't remember you getting that good of grades.” He hummed a beat, in thought. “I seem to remember you skipping class a lot to go skateboard with your friends a lot, and getting yelled at by the principal for it.” 

“At least I could write passable essays that weren't chickenscratch of uncollected thoughts and incomplete sentences,” Evan shot back. 

Oh, Pietro would much rather have not remembered the essays. The horror. 

Pietro's lips quirked. “I'm sorry, did you think your words would hit the mark your spikes keep missing?” 

“I don't want to fight you, Peter!” Evan shouted, before seeming to draw into himself again, a hand over his face. “Goddammit, I still can't believe you're _alive._ ” 

“Then let's not fight,” Pietro shrugged. “Nothing says we _have_ to fight. Want to go grab some coffee while we wait for everyone else to cool their shit?” 

“You're one of the bad guys,” Evan told him, but there was a small smile on his lips. “I can't go get coffee with one of the bad guys.”

“Dude, we are not the bad guys, how many times do I have to keep telling you?” Pietro said, reaching out to flick one of Evan's bone spikes. “Also, aren't we a little old for the good-guy/bad-guy shit? We're not high-schoolers anymore, we know the world isn't black and white. Just a helluva lotta shades of gray.” He gestured around them, just as Sabretooth went sailing through the air, blasted by Cyclops, right into the wall a few feet from where they were standing. “We all want the same thing, we're just approaching that goal at a different angle.” 

“Yeah, the _wrong_ angle,” Evan said, but he looked like he was trying not to laugh as Sabretooth stood up, shaking his head like wet dog, giving them a quick glare before charging back into the fight, yelling for Wolverine to stop being a coward. 

“Dude, let's just go get coffee, and we can talk,” Pietro said, stepping out of the way as Storm and Rogue went careening by in a flurry of hail and snow, Iceman chasing after them, yelling that he didn't want to be let out of the winter holiday fun. While shooting ice at Rogue to try to get her away from Storm.

Pietro couldn't help but dash over and trip the poor kid. He'd missed messing with Bobby. They only got to prank one another, and others, at these stupid battles. Last fight between the X-Men and the Brotherhood, Quicksilver and Iceman had started a snowball fight. And then later gotten yelled at by their respective team leaders for not taking the fight seriously.

These fights were so, so stupid. Magneto and the Professor just need to get a relationship counselor or something. So much drama. And guess who was getting hurt for it?

Yeah, not Erik or Charles. Just everyone around them. 

Wouldn't it be better if they could just unite for the mutant cause? Why was that so fucking hard?

“Fine,” Evan said. 

Oh, right. He'd had asked Evan out to coffee. 

Pietro grinned. “It's a date!”

* * *

“Going on a date?” Peter asked, suddenly appearing next to Charles in front of the mirror. 

Charles, to his credit, didn't even flinch, continuing to straighten his tie. “Not a date. Simply… meeting an old friend.” 

Peter grinned sharply. “Showing off your new ability to walk, huh?” 

Charles barely spared him a glance. “It would be ungrateful of me not to make full use of the gift, now wouldn't it?” 

“Does this 'friend' happen to have a name that ends with K, starts with E, and as an I and R in the middle, though not necessarily in that order?” Peter asked, amusement dancing on his lips. 

Charles took a moment to slow down what Peter had said, putting it together. He sighed. “Peter—”

And then there was a white carnation boutonniere in tucked into the buttonhole on Charles's lapel and a white pocket square in Charles's suit coat pocket. 

“Now, the first rule of wearing a boutonniere,” Peter said, clapping Charles on the shoulder, “is to wear it with confidence.” 

Charles looked at his reflection with the white carnation and matching pocket square, then shifted his eyes slightly up and to the right to meet the speedster's eyes in the mirror. “Thank you, Peter.”

“No problemo,” Peter said, suddenly standing by the door to Charles's room, hands in his jean pockets, a not-smile on his lips. “Tell Erik when you see him that he can go fuck himself.” 

And then Peter was gone.

* * *

And then Evan was standing outside a coffee shop, feeling like he was going to throw up, while Pietro chatted beside him. 

“Don't worry, it'll pass, it happens to everyone,” Pietro said, and apparently he'd just run inside to see what the cafe was offering, because he started listing off all of the pastries in the case and all of the drinks on the board, and Evan could barely understand any of it.

“Whoa, dude, slow down,” Evan said, straightening as his stomach finally settled. “Why are you so excited, man? It been this long since you had a friend to talk to?” 

“No, it's just that usually when people see that I'm about to consume coffee, they find something very important to do somewhere else that is very far away from me,” Pietro grinned. 

Evan groaned, and Pietro laughed. 

God, Evan had thought that he'd never hear that laugh again.

* * *

When the plane landed in the forest, the wolves ran away. 

But the wolfish man stayed, crept closer, curiosity winning out over survival instincts. When the humans exited the plane, stepping out into the snow, the wolfish man's curiosity was piqued further. Something about some of them seemed almost familiar to him, and not in the same way as the Human Place that made the screaming in his head louder. 

There'd been so much screaming in his head, since he'd gone to the Human Place and heard the strange screaming there stop, and something about these humans made the noise ease. 

_Answers_ begged the voice in his head. _Need answers._

The bald man in the wheelchair tilted his head, eyes scanning the trees, settling on where the wolfish man was expertly hidden. 

“You can come out, you know,” the bald man called. The sound was strange, but familiar, and the wolfish man found that he understood the human's meaning, without understanding quite how he understood. 

The animal in the man yelped for him to bolt, but the voice in his head demanded, Answers. 

“I will do my very best to answer your questions,” the bald man said, and the other man next to him, a predator of a man, a hunter's physicality, hissed, _“Who are you talking to, Charles?”_

The wolfish man stepped out of the trees, into the snow-covered clearing, and both the bald man and the predator man were surprised. The man behind them, even taller, smelling of animal, registered the same surprise.

“Oh, Logan…” the bald man breathed, eyes wide. “What happened to you, my friend?”

The wolfish man growled, not understanding. 

“He seems to have digressed to a feral state,” the man who smelled of animal said to the bald man quietly. “Likely the result of intense trauma.” 

“You weren't lying when you told me you'd need help,” the bald man remarked, the man with the bearing of a predator and the man with the scent of an animal looking at him with confusion. 

_Come here, Logan_ , came the bald man's voice, and the wolfish man didn't notice, at first, that the words had been inside his head, creeping forward, eyes flicking around uncertainly. There were more humans in the plane, he could smell them. 

These humans smelled strange. Not like the humans at the Human Place, not the scents of the people in the scenes that haunted him. More like the scent of blood he'd smelled there, the blood with the scent of pain. 

Yes, these humans smelled like the human he'd heard screaming. One of these humans more than the others. 

The wolfish man sniffed again. The predator man. 

The predator man didn't flinch as the wolfish man stepped closer to him, nostrils flaring. The scent of dried blood, from his hands, a chewed hangnail. That blood scent. 

“You…” the wolfish man grunted out, voice chalky and uncertain with disuse, looking at the man just slightly shorter than himself, the man who carried himself like a predator. “You… were…” he struggled with the word, “screaming?” 

“What?” the predator man asked, brow crinkled. 

“Oh, lord,” the bald man said, a hand to his temple, eyes wide. “Erik,” he said, turning to the predator man, “I think Logan knows where Peter is.” 

_“What?!”_ the predator man hissed, body language intensifying, and the wolfish man took a step back, growling, claws sliding to just barely poke through his skin, ready for a fight. 

There was a calming touch in his mind. _Relax, Logan. He's not a threat to you._

The wolfish man found himself relaxing. 

“Logan,” the bald man said, leaning forward slightly, fingers steepled, eyes intent but not dangerous. Not a predator. Desperate, almost, a bird that's heard an alarm. “Can you show us where the Human Place is?”

* * *

“You know, I was on the X-Men, before I joined the Brotherhood,” Pietro said, swirling a stirring stick around in his chai latte with extra whipped cream. 

“Yeah?” Evan asked, raising an eyebrow as he sipped his iced mocha. How the hell Pietro could drink a hot beverage when it was so warm out, he had no idea. “Why did you leave?” 

“I didn't fit in with the X-Men,” Pietro shrugged, half of his chai latte seeming to disappear into thin air. “We're older than all them, you know? It was frustrating being told what to do by a teenage kid who doesn't know anything.”

“Okay, I can kinda understand you there,” Evan relented. He had a hard time putting up with that, himself. “But why join the Brotherhood?” 

“Magneto's my father,” Pietro said, like most people would remark something banal about the weather.

It took a few moments for Evan to register that, his eyes widening when he finally did, looking at Pietro in shock. _“What?!”_

“He and my mom, they dated—” Pietro started. 

“Yeah, I get that,” Evan interrupted. “But… _Magneto?!”_

“He wasn't Magneto at the time,” Pietro pointed out. 

“Your father,” Evan said slowly, disbelievingly, “is a mutant terrorist.” 

“Your _face_ is a mutant terrorist,” Pietro said, rolling his eyes—slowly, so he could be sure that Evan definitely saw that he was rolling his eyes. Huh. What kind of reaction could he get out of someone if he rolled his eyes over and over in superspeed? Something to test out later, maybe. 

Evan was looking at him. What was he saying again?

“You've matured a lot, I see,” Evan said dryly. 

“Yeah, a decade spent living in your mother's basement will do that to you, I hear,” Pietro said, taking another swig of his drink, relishing in the warmth of it. “What have you been up to in the—how long was it since we've seen each other? Eleven years?”

“Twelve,” Evan said, and sighed, looking down at his iced mocha, not drinking it, just feeling the cold plastic between his palms, the condensation on the outside. “And… a lot has happened. I wouldn't know where to start.” 

Pietro shrugged. “Just start wherever you feel like the story begins, man.” 

Evan took a sip of his drink, fingers drumming on the table thoughtfully. “Well, I guess I should start with how—”

* * *

“—'d I get here?” he asked, blinking, trying to sit up, only for a strong hand to push him back down. “Where am I?” There was silver hair in his face. 

“Calm down,” said the man who'd pushed him down. The world felt too fast. 

The room was white. A hospital, maybe. He was connected to an IV.

The man who'd pushed him down was looking at him with concern. Blue eyes. Brown hair. Kind of awkward. 

“Who the hell are you?” he asked the man. 

He thought maybe he saw hurt in the man's eyes, but it was gone too fast. 

“Why is the world so fast?” he asked. It felt wrong. 

The man seemed to collect himself, sitting back in the chair next to the bed. “My name is Hank McCoy,” the man, Hank, said. “You're in the med bay at Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, a school for mutants. Your name is Peter Maximoff. You're a mutant—a speedster—but you're on a drug that dampens your powers so that we could give you treatment. You burn through the sedatives and painkillers too fast, otherwise.” 

“Treatment for what?” he asked. 

“You're on painkillers, so you probably can't tell at the moment,” Hank said, “but you're… well.” An almost astonished chuckle. “Let's just say that not many people could have survived what you went through.” 

“Why can't I remember anything?” he asked. 

“They brainwashed you,” Hank said, something pained in his expression. “I…” Hank's eyes moved elsewhere, and he looked almost ashamed. “I haven't figured out which, yet. I don't know how much damage the electricity did to your brain, or what may have happened with your accelerated healing. I don't know if you'll be able to get your memories back.” 

“Peter, huh?” the amnesiac said, staring up at the ceiling. Fingers tapping on the bed. “That's my name.” 

“Well, technically it's Pietro, I've been told, but you generally went by Peter,” Hank said. 

A breath. “Were we friends?” 

“Uh, yeah,” Hank said, looking down, an awkward smile on his face. “We were…” he glanced up at the amnesiac, who was watching him. “We were boyfriends, actually.” 

The amnesiac frowned, searching Hank's face. “I don't remember.” 

“I know,” Hank said, smiling awkwardly. “It's alright. Don't push yourself.” Hank stood up, beginning to fiddle with various items on a nearby table. Various pieces of equipment, it looked like. “You… Xavier thinks that they can help restore your memories, once you've healed enough to undergo the strain of the process.” 

“Hey,” the amnesiac said quietly. 

Hank turned to look at him. 

The amnesiac held out his hand, smiling slightly, and Hank's lips curled sadly as he sat back down in the chair, taking the pale hand in his own. 

“You're going to be alright,” Hank said, imbuing the words with all his faith, though there remained a frightened light in his eyes. 

The amnesiac squeezed his hand. “Hank, right?” 

“Y-yeah,” Hank said. “Hank McCoy.” 

“Hank,” the amnesiac said, turning his head to look at him, lost dark eyes meeting scared blue. “Could you tell me my name again?”

* * *

The Brotherhood of Mutants and the X-Men were fighting. _Again._

And Evan, aka Spyke, had somehow managed to pin Quicksilver to the wall with his bone spikes. 

Evan sighed as he walked over, crossing his arms as he narrowed his eyes at the speedster. “You let me catch you, didn't you?” 

“Felt like we need a change of pace,” Pietro said, grinning, completely unconcerned by the spikes of bone pinning him in place. “Good aim, by the way. For, you know, a _snail._ ” 

“This is ridiculous,” Evan said, a hand over his face. “I'm so sick and tired of fighting you guys. Maybe it's okay for the teenagers who don't know anything, and those Wolverine and Sabretooth guys who just like fighting and don't really care the reason, but I feel like I'm wasting my time.” 

“Multiply that feeling by ten thousand,” Pietro said, smile gone, “and that's what I feel.” 

“Man,” Evan said, watching in disinterest as Pyro and Nightcrawler duked it out nearby in a flurry of orange flames and purple smoke. 

“So, for a change of pace, it looks like you've caught me for once,” Pietro said, and his smile was back when Evan looked to him. “What are you going to do now?” 

Evan stared at him for a moment, before giving a huff of amusement. “Are you really trying to get me to make out with you in the middle of a fight?” he asked, shaking his head, taking a step back, arms spread. “I can't do that. Not here.” 

“Come _on_. Would you rather fight me or make out with me?” Peter asked, but he was watching the sky, where Magneto was hovering. 

And as soon as Magneto started turning his way, Pietro was disengaged from the bone spikes and had his arms around Evan's neck, kissing him soundly. And Evan wasn't pushing him away, wrapping his arms around Pietro's waist and kissing him back. 

Pietro could practically hear Erik's shock, and he smirked into the kiss.

* * *

Pietro smirked as he held Wanda's favorite pair of high-heels out of her reach. “What, were you looking for these?”

“Pietro, give those back!” Wanda said, grabbing for them, only for Pietro to have moved a foot to the right, still holding the shoes. 

“Do you _really_ want them back?” Pietro asked, raising a silver eyebrow, suddenly another foot to the right when she tried to grab them again. “You're not trying very hard.” 

_“Brother!”_ she yelled, eyes glowing with scarlet as the high-heels completely disappeared from the speedster's hand, and he said, “Whoops! I have no idea where they are!”

And then Pietro was blasted through the wall and into the corridor, through the other wall and into the bathroom on the other side.

Erik took a step back in surprise, looking at the two new, gaping holes in the walls of the hallway, Wanda peeking out of one and Pietro peeking out of the other. 

Sabretooth strolled up behind Erik, laughing when he saw the damage. “And ya yell at _me_ fer scratchin' up the furniture a lil' bit!” 

Erik glared at his children “ _Pietro,”_ he said severely. _“Wanda.”_

“It'sWanda'sfault!” Pietro said, pointing at her at the same time as Wanda pointed at him and said, “Pietro started it!”

* * *

Quicksilver and Spyke started it. The kissing. Though it was Scarlet Witch who ignited the rebellion.

Scarlet Witch, seeing Quicksilver and Spyke kissing instead of fighting, pulled her current fighting partner, a startled Jubilee, in for a gentle kiss with a whispered, “Go with it” against the other girl's lips. 

Next was Shadowcat, who practically threw herself at Avalanche, making him catch her as she kissed him. And the teenage boy certainly wasn't complaining. 

Psylocke caught on next, being a telepath, and used her telekenetic whip to grab Angel's neck and drag him over, pulling him into a kiss. 

“Uh,” Iceman said, glancing around at the kissing couples, before grabbing Pyro, who'd been fighting, and kissing him, almost gasping in surprise when Pyro started kissing him enthusiastically back. 

“What the hell—!” Cyclops started, when he saw Jean grab Gambit and press her lips to his, saying, _Sorry, Scott, but it has to be someone from the other team_ in his head. 

Cyclops didn't have long to try to figure that out though before Emma Frost pulled him into a kiss. 

Rogue landed on the ground, folding the wings she'd borrowed from Angel to her back, feeling awkward, until Wolverine walked up and put a hand on her shoulder, saying, “You can't hurt me, darlin'. But brace yerself fer the mem'ries.” 

“Sugah,” Rogue said, smirking, “Ah can take any shit ya can deal out.” And then she kissed him. 

“Um,” Beast said, looking around, feeling grateful his blush wasn't visible through his blue fur. And then Mystique grabbed his hand, pulled him around, and crashed her lips to his. 

“C'mere, cutie,” Boom-Boom grinned, kissing a startled but willing Nightcrawler. 

Sabretooth, seeing what was going on, tried to surreptitiously slink away, but Storm landed in front of him, saying, “Where do you think you're going, Sabretooth?” and kissed him. 

“You've got guts, girl, I'll give ya that,” Sabretooth growled into the kiss. 

“Having the ability to strike people with lightning bolts can do that to a person, I hear,” she replied, arms around his neck. “So be a good cat and don't you dare try anything.” 

Magneto slowly lowered to the ground, looking around at all the kissing couples who had, only a moment before, been fighting each other like they were fighting to ensure the very existence of tomorrow. 

Magneto took off his helmet. “Charles,” he said, looking around. “Are you seeing this?” 

_I am_ , came Charles's voice in his head, sounding amused but not unsurprised. _Perhaps a negotiated alliance is in order?_

Everyone was still kissing, all pairings of one X-Men, one member of the Brotherhood. 

“Perhaps,” Erik agreed.

* * *

Hank let out a breath. “Your name is Pietro Maximoff, but you go by Peter.”

“Do I…” the amnesiac wet his parched lips. “Do I… have any family?” 

“Your mother is Magada Maximoff,” Hank said. “Your father is Erik Lensherr. Your father is also a mutant. He can manipulate metal.” 

The amnesiac frowned slightly. “Do I…” There was a niggling feeling in the back of his head. “Do I have any… siblings?”

“Not that I'm aware of,” Hank said. “If you did, you never talked about them.”

“And me?” the amnesiac asked, skipping to another question. “You said that I'm a mutant, too. What can I do?” 

“You're a speedster,” Hank said, and there was a fond light in his eyes, bright. “You're really fast, and you can accelerate atomic matter. You…” a smile, blue eyes down, then up, meeting his. “You're amazing.” 

Hank's hand was warm in his own. Pleasantly so. “And what about you, Hank? What can you do?” 

“I, uh,” Hank said, scratching the back of his neck, looking away, smiling almost wryly. “I turn blue and furry, with claws and fangs, and opposable thumbs on my feet.” 

When he looked up again, Peter was staring at him thoughtfully. 

Hank's throat felt dry. “What?” 

“I'm trying to imagine what you look like when you're blue and furry,” Peter said, and there was a mischievous smile growing on his face. “I've come up with a couple different versions, and it's either really ridiculous or really scary.” 

Hank chuckled, then, a sense of relief flooding him. Peter might not have his memories, yet, but he was still Peter, it seemed. “To be fair,” Hank said, smiling slightly, “when you saw my blue form for the first time, you were a little scared.” 

“I was?” Peter asked, raising a silver eyebrow.

“Well, mostly you were afraid that it was going to happen to you,” Hank admitted, and Peter chuckled. 

And then Peter's expression turned more lost, almost timid, and he asked, “You said I have a mother and father? Are they here?” 

“Your father is,” Hank said, trying to swallow down the unease from seeing Peter look _timid_ , of all things. 

“Can I see him?” Peter looked so hopeful. 

“Not… not yet,” Hank sighed, feeling awful when he saw the disappointment in Peter's gaze. “Neither of you are in any condition to do so now. Once you've both healed some, physically and emotionally, then you can see him.” 

Peter tried to sit up to see his injuries, covered by bandages and blanket, but Hank gently pushed him back down again. “Don't. You'll aggravate them. I don't want to have to stitch you up again.” 

Peter swallowed thickly, and there was fear in his gaze when he looked at Hank, voice quiet. “How… how bad is it?” 

Hank tried to offer him a reassuring smile. “You'll survive. You just need some time to heal and rest.”

* * *

Peter tried to rest. He really did. 

“Du siehst todmüde aus,” his mother said, concerned, trying to take his chin in her hand so she could tilt his face up to see the dark bags under his eyes more clearly, but he ducked away. “Schläfst du nicht?” 

“Ich bin okay, Mama,” Peter said, turning away, waving a hand flippantly. “Mach dir keine Sorge.” 

He was sleeping. Just not very long, and not very well. The nightmares had been getting worse, recently. He didn't understand why. It's not like anything had changed, except for the frequency and intensity of the nightmares themselves. 

“What are your nightmares about, Peter?” Wanda asked. 

She knew. She always knew. 

He sighed, coming over from her bedroom door where he'd been lingering, not wanting to go to his own room. He sat down on her bed, a fingers tracing over the pattern of the quilt there, all reds and purples and diagonal lines. 

“Peter?” Wanda prompted, sitting up against the headboard, reaching out to take his hand in her own. “You know you can tell me anything.” 

“I know,” Peter said. Her hand was so warm against his own. He'd been feeling so cold, recently. 

Wanda waited, and Peter opened his mouth, only to close it again, shaking his head. “It's… I don't know how to explain. I don't even remember that much, just… just the fear, and…” 

Wanda waited. 

Peter let out a shaky breath, squeezing her hand. “And you always die,” he whispered, eyes clenched shut. “And I think, also… I think I'm usually running, but I'm not going anywhere. It's dark, and… and there's lightning striking all over the world… but it's one of those things, you know? I'm obviously not everywhere in the world, but somehow I know that the lightning is striking everywhere. And… there's usually a voice, telling me things… just words, you know? Words like _'Run.' 'Faster.' 'Monster.'”_

Wanda's hand warmed his own. “It's okay to have nightmares, Peter,” she said.

Peter laughed disbelievingly. “I'm fifteen, Wanda, I think that's a little old to be so scared of a few little nightmares.” 

“I'm fifteen, too,” Wanda said, “and I still have nightmares.” 

Peter looked at her, surprised. “You have nightmares, too?” 

“Ja,” Wanda said, and her smile was weak. 

Peter blinked. “What are they about?” 

“They're… just…” Wanda pursed her lip, looking down at their clasped hands. “It's like, they're always good dreams, at first, but then everything just kinda falls apart and flakes away, and it turns out that none of it was real, and then, what's underneath…” she shuddered. “It's all… it's all dead. And I touch things, people, plants, buildings, and they're restored, but as soon as I let go, they go back to being dead. But I know it's a dream, and that it's not real.” 

Her smile was wry. “You turn up in my dreams sometimes, too, you know. The other night I found you, and you were dead, and I touched you and you came back to life, and then you clung to me and begged me not to let go, to wake up from the dream before I let go of you, and I asked you why, because it didn't matter if it was just a dream, right? And you just screamed, 'Because I don't want to die again,' at me, and then I woke up.” 

Peter's lips quirked. “So I'm dramatic even when I'm just a figment of your dream, huh?” and Wanda giggled and poked his arm. 

“Ja, Peter the drama queen,” she teased, laughing when he threw himself down on her bed, sprawling on her legs, moaning melodramatically that he was dying and he could see the light.

* * *

“We need to get Wanda back from the Brotherhood,” Scott said, grim determination on his face. “From Magneto.” 

“Easier said than done, bub,” Wolverine growled. “He'll protect them to his death.” 

“We've dealt with Magneto before—” Scott started.

“I'm not talking about _Magneto!_ ” Wolverine snarled. “I'm talking about _Pietro!_ ”

* * *

Everyone thought Pietro was protecting Wanda from the world, when he guarded her so fiercely.

It wasn't until later that anyone realized he was protecting the _world_ from _Wanda._

* * *

Wolverine wasn't trying to kill Pietro. He just wanted to spook him a little, give him a chance to get away from his father.

But he hadn't counted on Wanda's reaction. 

Wolverine's blades pierced through Pietro's chest, through the muscle up by his shoulder, blood spurting a brilliant scarlet. 

“If you try to move—quick as you are—the blades will slice right through your chest,” Wolverine growled. 

_“Wanda—run-nnh!”_ Pietro cried out, on the ground with Wolverine standing over him. 

_“James,”_ Wanda said, eyes glowing scarlet, face shadowed. _“You will leave my brother ALONE.”_

Scarlet energy swirled around her, dinosaurs folding from the fabric of reality, time and space rippling as creatures of the past appeared in the modern day. 

“Oh, shit!” Wolverine muttered, eyes wide, before removing his blades from Pietro's chest and running off, a T-Rex chasing after him, roaring and gnashing its teeth, eyes as fiery as those of the woman who had conjured it. 

“I should've been faster…” Pietro gasped out, as Wanda hurried to his side, pressing her red-gloved hands over his wound. “Letting that _maniac_ anywhere near you…”

“Are we going to talk about it—or just pretend it didn't happen?” Wanda asked, voice quavering. 

“What—the _dinosaurs?_ ” Pietro asked, letting out a gasp as she increased the pressure on his injury. “We'll just tell everyone it's one of Magneto's experiments gone wrong.” A remote place like the Savage Land, a tropical jungle hidden in Antarctica where Magneto had built the Brotherhood's new base, nobody would ever have any reason to doubt such. And Magneto's ego wouldn't allow him to say otherwise. 

_“Pietro!”_ Wanda said, tears glistening at the corners of her green eyes even as his puncture wounds healed under her touch. “I didn't _want_ to conjure anything like that! If I can't control this power, how do I know it won't control _me?_ ” 

“Because _I_ won't let it,” Pietro assured her, softly, brushing the backs of his knuckles gently over her cheek. We'll look after each other, Wanda.” He took her hand, then, meeting her eyes. “And nothing will _ever_ split us apart.”

* * *

“All I ever wanted was to fix the world and give you a place worthy of your beauty and kindness,” Pietro gasped, bleeding out at his sister's grave. 

Tears stung his eyes, his breath hitching painfully, what little warmth he had leaving his body. “I'm sorry, Wanda.”

* * *

The muzzle of a gun was pointed at Peter's face. “Hands on the back of your head and face on the floor! Now!”

“You know, many humans are intrinsically afraid of snakes,” Peter said, leaning back casually against the wall, watching the man with the gun unconcernedly. “We had thousands of years of being bitten by snakes to evolve that fear into something instinctual. Guns, though,” he said, nodding at the pistol in the man's hand, “are a relatively new invention. Humans have not had time to evolve an intrinsic fear of guns.” Peter's lips curled. “We have to learn to fear them.” 

“On the ground!” the man shouted, a bit of hysteria in his voice. “I _will_ shoot! Don't test me!”

“I guess it's too bad for you that I never learned that fear,” Peter said, and suddenly the gun was in his own hand, a smirk on his lips as the now empty-handed man quaked and started to back away, fear bright in his eyes. 

“And I may not have evolved a fear of guns,” Peter said, “but I _did_ evolve superspeed.” 

And then the man was unconscious on the ground. 

“Somebody call the cops or something,” Peter said, poking the unconscious man with a foot. “And let this be a lesson to everyone here: don't try to rob stores.” 

When he got back to the mansion, he collapsed into a fit of laughter at his own hypocrisy, pockets stuffed with stolen chocolates.

* * *

“We did it!” Peter cried, throwing his arms around Wanda, a huge grin on his face. “We just saved the day, sister!”

“You weren't even _here_ for the fight!” Scott said, turning to glare at them with his one-eyed visor. “Don't go showing up after a fight's over claiming to have saved the day when you didn't fucking do anything!” 

“Actually,” Peter said, pulling away from his sister to look at their team leader, “if you slow down any of the security footage, I think you'll find that Scarlet Witch and I—”

Scott groaned, facepalming. _“Not this again.”_

“Check the footage,” Peter said airily, waving him off and turning back to his sister. 

When Logan walked over to Peter and Wanda and nodded, “Ya did well today, kids,” Scott's jaw dropped.

* * *

“Pie, Erik, this is my boyfriend, Victor von Doom, King of Latveria,” Wanda said as she took Victor's arm, smiling as she watched their jaws drop ever so slightly, their eyes widening. Latveria was a world superpower, after all, of course they'd heard of Victor von Doom. “We've been dating for almost a year now.” 

Victor was tall, strong, handsome, keen brown eyes, combed brown hair, chiseled jaw, sharply pressed smooth-gray blazer and dress pants, forest-green vest, white-collared shirt, sage-green tie, the superior air of a both a king and a genius. 

“Victor, this is Pietro, my twin brother,” Wanda introduced, gesturing to the silver-haired speedster. “He's also known as Quicksilver. And this,” she gestured to the Master of Magnetism, “is my father, Erik. Also known as Magneto.”

“A pleasure,” the man next to Wanda said smoothly. 

Pietro, being a speedster, recovered first. 

“You've been dating this guy for almost a year and you _didn't tell me?!_ ” he said, whirling on his sister in alarm, dark eyes looking almost betrayed. 

“Well, I wasn't quite dating him at first, see,” Wanda said, smiling sheepishly. “I was at a premiere for one of my movies in Latveria, when I lost control of my powers. Victor was there, and was able to undo the damage and create a cover story for the media. He then offered to help train me to better control his powers, and I accepted. He was giving me lessons in magic for a few months before we started officially dating.” 

“Why didn't you tell me?” Pietro asked again, and there was pain in his voice. 

“I'm sorry, Pie,” Wanda said, walking over to take his hand, placing his fingers against her cheek as she offered him a smile that quietly asked for forgiveness. Her voice was low, only for him as she said, “I just didn't know how you would take it. I know you had a hand in scaring my previous boyfriends away, and I really, really like Victor.” 

Erik, being one who liked to consider himself dignified, had recovered quickly and walked over to Victor to shake his hand and formally introduce himself. 

An alliance between the Brotherhood of Mutants and the Kingdom of Latveria could be very beneficial to them both, after all.

* * *

Magneto dropped the dead body of Charles Xavier to the ground, the thudding of the broken body on cement almost seeming to echo in the sudden silence as members of both the Brotherhood and the X-Men froze mid-fight.

The Master of Magnetism turned around, catching the gazes of the gathered mutants, all the cameras from the flocked news agencies turning their lights on him as he spread his arms, his voice booming over the battlefield.

“The reign of _homo sapiens_ is over. The reign of _homo superior_ has begun. We will take our rightful place at the top of the world, the humans groveling at our feet. 

“Never again will any of you be made to hide who you are in fear. Never again will any of you be abused for your gifts. 

“I ask you to fight alongside me, my mutant brothers and sisters. Fight alongside me for your freedom! For our freedom!” 

All over the world, mutants were cheering, the heavy weight of persecution sloughing from their shoulders. 

And all over the world, humans felt that weight settling on their own.

* * *

Victor was walking down the halls of his castle when he found himself suddenly shoved against the wall, a knife to his throat. 

“If you _hurt_ Wanda in any _way shape or form_ you will answer to _me,_ ” the silver-haired man with the knife hissed, without any of the customary pauses between words. “Do I make myself _clear?”_

“Pietro,” Victor greeted calmly, meeting the dark gaze of the mutant, unflinching. “Do you give all your sister's boyfriends the same courtesy, or only the ones who are rulers of their own country?” 

“All of them,” Pietro said smoothly, still holding the knife to Victor's throat. “I might be the reason she can never keep a boyfriend for very long.” 

“If you were able to drive them away so easily, then they did not deserve to date your sister,” Victor said. “She deserves only the very best of men. Someone who can protect her from the world, and the world from her, and is incapable of being cowed by fear.” 

“And you think yourself that man?” Pietro asked, the knife pressing harder, nicking the skin of Victor's neck every so slightly, a single drop of scarlet blood welling up around the silver blade. 

Victor neither flinched nor made any move to disengage himself from the knife. “I do,” the King of Latveria said, brown eyes locked confidently with the mutant's. “I have the knowledge and power necessary to keep her safe. Nobody else could do so like I can.” His gaze softened slightly. “And I can give her a life almost worthy of her beauty and kindness,” he said, quietly, no longer looking at Pietro but through him at something beyond, his tone reverent. “She deserves that much, wouldn't you say?” 

Pietro examined his face for several long moments. “You have more enemies than friends, Victor,” he said. The drop of red ran slowly down Victor's throat. “Your enemies will become her enemies.”

Victor's gaze returned to him. “I have many enemies, it is true,” he said. “But they can do nothing against me. They do not have the power to harm me or anything under my protection. However,” and his voice softened again, “if any harm should happen to Wanda while she is under my care, I would deserve anything you chose to do to me.” 

Victor smiled slightly as he looked at Pietro. “I cannot even tell you,” he said, “how happy it makes me that the only person who has the power to do destroy Wanda or myself loves her too deeply to ever do so.” 

“You know how powerful Wanda is,” Pietro said, the knife not moving from its place slightly embedded in Victor's skin. “How do I know you don't just want to use her power for yourself?” 

“Because I love her,” Victor said. “And if I ever tried to use her, she could, and would, simply wish me out of existence.” 

Pietro examined him for several more moments, before the knife was suddenly gone from Victor's throat. “You say all the right things,” Pietro said. “Let's hope your actions support everything you say.” 

“Victor!” Wanda called, turning the corner, scarlet cape brushing the floor behind her. “Victor, are you—oh,” she said, as she saw Pietro and Victor standing there, Pietro idly examining his fingernails the way he always did when he was trying to hide something from her. 

“My love,” Victor greeted with a smile, walking over and taking her hand, pressing his lips to her knuckles. “You needed me?” 

Wanda's eyes locked on the thin line of red on Victor's throat, the drop of blood still trickling slowly down toward the spot between the man's collarbones. 

“Pietro!” she said, whirling around to glare at her brother, fists clenched and swirling with scarlet energy. “What did you do?! I _love him!_ And are you _trying_ to start an international incident?!” 

“Relax, Wanda.” It was Victor who said it, taking her hand once again in both of his, the scarlet energy calming under his touch. “He did not harm me. He was merely making it very clear just how much you mean to him and making sure that your fiancé will treat you with all the love and care you deserve.” 

Wanda calmed, at that, and tilted her head when he leaned forward to give her a small, almost chaste kiss on the lips. 

“You are very lucky to have a brother that cares so deeply for you,” Victor said, when he pulled away, a thumb brushing over her arm. 

Wanda smiled at him. “I'm glad you see it that way. My previous boyfriends couldn't put up with him. It was kind of a deal-breaker.”

“For you,” Victor said, “I could put up with anything.” 

Wanda laughed. 

“Also, you don't have to worry about me causing any international incidents,” Pietro said, appearing next to them with several sheets of paperwork in his hands, holding it out to them. “Since I checked to see if you were telling the truth about the fiancé thing, and apparently you actually are engaged to be married, though it appears, Wanda, that you need to become an official Latverian citizen first and haven't gotten around to filling out the paperwork yet, I'm going to become a Latverian citizen, too, and I took the liberty to fill the paperwork out for both of us.” 

There was a pleased light in Victor's eyes. “I'm honored to have your blessing, Pietro.” 

Wanda took the paperwork, flipping through it as she saw that her brother had indeed filled out the documents for both of them, and then she was throwing her arms around her brother's neck. “Oh, Pietro! Thank you!” 

“For what?” Pietro grumbled, though he didn't hesitate to hug her back, his face pressed into her hair. “This Victor guy seems okay. And,” his voice lowered, “I just want you to be happy, sister.”

* * *

It was evening, and Peter and Wanda sat outside in the dimming light, sitting together in one of the pool chairs on the balcony, Wanda with her back against her brother's chest, a book of Lord Byron's poetry in his hands. 

She watched the sunset stain the sky in oranges and golds as his he spoke, voice soft and slow. 

“She walks in beauty, like the night,” he spoke, “Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright, Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellow'd to that tender light, Which heaven to gaudy day denies.” 

The sun was slipping lower, scarlet on the horizon, violet bleeding into the sky's azure, and she twined her fingers with her brother's. 

“One shade more, one ray the less, Had half impair'd the nameless grace, Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o'er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet express, How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.” 

There was the sound of the Professor's wheelchair rolling out onto the balcony, but they both ignored him, Wanda keeping her eyes on the sunset, her brother's voice continuing the poem softly, without hitch. 

“And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent!” 

He set the book down over the armrest, then, letting his head fall back against the lounge chair. 

“What do you want, Charles?” he asked, voice still in his poetry cadence. 

“That was beautiful,” Charles said as he wheeled over, offering them a gentle smile. “I had no idea you liked poetry.” 

Wanda felt Peter shrug. “It's a tradition, of sorts,” he said, gentle squeezing her hand. “After we got our powers, we had to figure out how to control them. I had a lot of trouble, in the beginning, trying to speak slow enough to be understood. Wanda came up with the idea of having me read poetry aloud to her and focus on speaking slowly.” 

“It has the bonus affect of helping to calm me down,” Wanda said, lips twitching as she gently pried open his fingers, placing her palm against his, moving their hands so the deep light of the sun shone through the slight gaps between their fingers. “I used to beg him to read poetry to me.” 

She sighed, tilting her head to tuck under his chin, moving her fingers slightly to the right to clasp them through his own. “We haven't read poetry like this in years.” 

Charles smiled at them. “I've always liked poetry. I have many more books of poetry in my study. Feel free to borrow any of them.” He nodded at the book held lightly in Peter's hand. “Just make sure you put them back, afterwards. Lord Byron's works are some of my favorites.” 

“You'll never know they were missing,” Peter assured him, handing the book to Wanda for her to choose another poem for him to read. “If you like poetry that much, I suppose you can stay for the rest of our reading, so long as you agree to deflect anyone who might come up here looking for you.”

Wanda handed him the book back, smiling tilting her head to smile up at him, and he sighed when he saw which poem she'd chosen.

“You just had to choose one of the long ones, didn't you,” he murmured, before starting to read _Childe Harold's Pilgrimage_ , his voice lilting gently in iambic pentameter. 

Charles closed his eyes and let out a quiet breath as he leaned back in his wheelchair, letting the words flow over them, and Wanda did the same against her brother's chest. 

Erik found them there, later, both his children asleep curled together in the pool chair, the book of seventeenth century poetry in Charles's hands as he read to himself in the ample light of the nearly-full moon. 

Charles glanced up when Erik walked over, a soft smile on his face. He gestured at the sleeping twins.

“You have such lovely children,” he murmured. 

“Yes,” Erik agreed, but his heart was aching as he looked at them, adults that he hardly knew.

* * *

Victor von Doom had been told that an important Latverian official had requested a private and off-the-books meeting with him concerning the war, which ruffled his feathers, so to speak, in all the wrong ways. 

How dare they think they could request such a thing from _Doom?!_ All meetings had to be cleared with him! He was a busy man, he did not have time to meet with everyone personally when there was a war to facilitate!

He strode into the room furiously, white and gold cape sweeping behind him, only to pause, his ire falling away as he saw it was just Pietro there, feet propped up on the table, leaning back in his chair so that it was balancing on its back legs. 

“Pietro,” Victor said, closing the door behind him and coming to stand at the other side of the table, arms crossed. “What is the meaning of this? And remove your feet from the table. It's disrespectful.” 

Pietro removed his feet from the table, one at a time, the chair falling back to all four legs as he leaned forward, steepling his fingers as he regarded Victor with a slight quirk of his lips. 

“As a Latverian citizen and able-bodied male,” he said, “I want to offer my services in the war. This is my country, now, and as my sister is Latveria's queen, I feel it is my special duty to fight for the country's interests.” 

Victor raised an eyebrow. “You want to join the Latverian army?” 

“No such thing,” Pietro said, lips quirking further. “I offer you my services, sire, as a mercenary.” 

Now this was interesting. “Have you discussed this with Wanda?”

“I have not,” Pietro said. “And I would be greatly appreciative if you would neglect to mention it to her. I do not want her to worry.” 

“She will suspect,” Victor said. 

“If she does, then that will be an issue between her and me,” Pietro said easily. “You would not be involved. I can assure you, I am perfectly capable of taking full blame for my own actions, and taking any fire she might try to send your way concerning your negligence in informing her of her brother's whereabouts.” 

Victor regarded him for several moments. “I do not like the idea of hiding this from her,” he said finally, “but I understand your reasoning for not informing her. The benefit you could do this country as a mercenary are too great to ignore or put at risk. I'm sure we can come up with a suitable cover for your involvement.”

Pietro grinned. “I know you'll find something useful for me to do.” 

And then he was standing in front of Victor, bowing in that way of his that was more mocking than anything, but which Victor chose to let slide given Pietro's special status. “I am at your service, sire.”

* * *

“Peter, carry this,” Wanda said, dropping a pile of dresses into his arms. 

“I am at your service, my lady,” he said, ducking his head slightly, laughing when she punched him in the shoulder. 

“Slaves should be seen but not heard,” she said, sticking her tongue out at him, before grabbing his hand and dragging him toward the women's dressing rooms. “Now come along, we can't keep Kitty waiting.”

When they got there, Kitty was standing in front of a mirror, frowning as she turned this way and that in a light pink dress with a fluffy, tutu-like skirt. 

“I am going to _kill_ Ororo for this,” Kitty muttered, turning around to glare at Pietro. “How am I supposed to choose a dress on your sister's recommendation when she dresses like a _pole dancer?_ ” she gestured to Wanda, who was wearing tight red leather pants and a matching red leather sleeveless half-top. “And the hell invited you _anyway_ , Peter? This was supposed to be a _girls' night only_ thing.”

“Is that simply _pre-date_ nerves,” Peter asked, turning to Wanda and raising a silver eyebrow, “or has she simply realized how ridiculous her thick ankles look in that puffball of a dress?”

“Be nice, Pie,” Wanda said. She turned to Kitty, saying, “And I always bring Peter with me when I go shopping.”

“Even when you're shopping for bras?” Kitty asked dubiously. 

“Ja, even then,” Wanda said, digging through the pile of dresses in Peter's arms. “It's good to get a guy's perspective on things, you know? And I can make him carry stuff for me.” She picked out a dress and held it out to Kitty. “Here, try this one on.” 

Kitty looked at the dress, then glared at Wanda. “I hate you. And I hate Ororo for leaving me here with you.” 

“This is _not_ a pole-dancer dress,” Wanda said, rolling her eyes and shoving the dress into Kitty's arms. “Just go try it on. Pete was right about that dress you're currently wearing make you look like a puffball.” 

“I hate you both,” Kitty grumbled, but she took the dress and went to try it on. 

“Someone's testy,” Peter remarked as Kitty slammed the door to one of the dressing stalls. “What's all the fuss? It's not like she's picking out a _wedding dress_ or anything.”

* * *

By marrying Wanda Maximoff, Victor had secured not only the Scarlet Witch as his Queen, but Quicksilver and Magneto as his loyal allies, as well. Which gave him three of the world's most powerful mutants on his side. 

Which meant that Latveria could never, ever lose. 

He truly could not have married better if he'd tried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **[EDIT 9/25/16:]** The German has been edited. A huge thanks to  Respectable for fixing it!
> 
>  
> 
> **Translations:**
> 
>  
> 
>  _Du siehst todmüde aus_ \- You look tired
> 
>  _Schläfst du nicht?_ \- Are you not sleeping?
> 
>  _Ich bin okay, Mama_ \- I'm okay, Mom
> 
>  _Mach dir keine Sorge_ \- Don't worry yourself


	6. Timewarp pt.V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter.

* * *

**Timewarp (Sweet Dreams Are Made Of This ((don't) Wake Me Up (you dare)))**  
**pt.V**

* * *

You can hear her voice.

Come back to me, she whispers. You see her ghost standing in the hallway, walking towards you, and all the demons and monsters she passes crumble to ash. Come back to me, Pietro. 

It's not a plea. It's an order. 

_Come back to me._

And you know you'll do whatever she says.

* * *

“I think it better if we try to free Peter by long-distance means,” Charles said, wheeling his way to Cerebro, Wanda striding beside him. “We can never get close enough to touch him, physically. But with the help of Cerebro and yourself, we should be able to touch his mind.” 

“Let's do it,” Wanda said, and Erik saw Magda when they were about to escape from Auschwitz, saying, “Machen wir das,” the same expression of grim determination on her face.

* * *

Stryker's expression was one of horror as the chair began vibrating.

He made to yell something, but he was cut off by the explosion, throwing him back against the wall, knocking almost all the air out of him. 

He coughed, the room filled with smoke and dust. 

A dark figure stepped out of the smoke, metal glinting between black-gloved fingers. A half-mask was kicked along the floor, rolling lopsidedly out of the smoke to finally come to a rest after hitting Stryker's boots. 

“I should probably say something along the lines of how you'll never hurt any other mutants again but I won't waste time with pretty words.” 

By the time Stryker had even registered what the mutant had said, the scalpel was already slit his throat.

* * *

Warren looked up as a dark figure appeared in front of him, a snarl splitting his lips. “You again, huh?” 

“Come on,” the figure said, and suddenly Warren's bonds were snapped open, and the silver-haired mutant, no longer masked, was offering his hand. “Let's get you out of here, bro.”

* * *

Warren was walking around the mansion with no shirt, the same way he'd been walking around for the two weeks he'd been there. 

The guy was _ripped_ , and he was walking around shirtless _all the time_. 

It was distracting. 

“Can you _please_ go put on a shirt, Warren?!” Kitty begged, blushing carefully when she looked up to see him walk into the room, shirtless and barefoot, wearing just a pair of gray jeans. 

“I second that motion,” Jean said, not looking up from where she was sitting at the table reading a book. 

Warren looked at Kitty sourly. “I can't,” he said, spreading his metal wings slightly. “It was hard enough to get shirts on just when my wings were feathered, but now that they're metal they slice everything up.” 

“Well, _find_ a way!” Kitty said, burying her nose in her textbook. “You can't just wander around shirtless everywhere, you know!” 

Warren bared his teeth and walked out of the library. 

However, as soon as he entered the hang-out room, Jubilee looked at him and exclaimed, “ _God_ , Warren! Put on a _shirt!_ ” 

“Uh, yeah,” Bobby said, clearing his throat and looking away. “Put on a shirt, dude. You don't need to go flashing your six-pack at everyone all the time.” 

Warren growled. “I _can't_ put on a shirt. It was _hard enough_ to get shirts on just when my wings were _feathered_ , but now that they're _metal_ they _slice everything up._ ” 

“Relax, Wings,” Peter said, suddenly there, an arm around Warren's shoulders, smirking. “They're just flustered by your awesome physique.” 

Warren glared at him, shrugging him off. “Go away, Peter.” 

“You're not still mad at me for ruining your escape attempt when I was brainwashed, are you?” Peter drawled, casual, but there was a slightly tense line to his shoulders. 

Warren just sent him a glare and then stalked out of the room, brushing past Ororo as she entered, tossing a, “Put on a shirt, Warren,” at him as she did. 

Warren let out a snarl, turning to stalk out of the room, but Peter grabbed his arm, pulling him back. 

_“Hey,”_ Peter said, loudly enough to catch everyone's attention, making them all look at him. There was a smirk on his lips. “I don't know _what_ you guys's problem is. He can't put on a shirt, so stop trying to make the guy put on a shirt, already! _In fact,_ ” Peter let go of Warren's wrist and stepped back, peeling off his shirt, slowly, tossing it to the floor, “I've just become allergic to wearing shirts.” 

There were gasps as everyone stared at all the scars on his toned chest, raised lines on his skin from his time in the hands of Weapon Plus.

Peter ignored the stares, kicking his shirt away. “Viva la shirtless revolution!”

* * *

The streets were strewn with bodies, buildings burning, humans screaming, the robots they'd thought would protect them having turned against them. 

“This is horrible,” Pietro observed, almost apathetically, walking next to Magneto down the blood-bathed street. 

Magneto kicked a disembodied hand out of his way. “Uprisings always are. Sometimes blood must be spilt for the sake of socio-political reformation.” 

“The team is having some difficulty taking down the White House,” Pietro said, having just checked. “The military was called in. Should we assist them?” 

“No,” Magneto said, not breaking his stride. 

Pietro stepped over fallen pieces of a flaming fence. “Then what—”

* * *

“—'s going on?” Wanda asked, as she walked into the room to find Warren and Bobby hanging around shirtless, while Peter, also shirtless, had Hank backed against the wall, tickling him and trying to get him to take his shirt off. 

“Warren can't wear shirts, so we're having a shirtless revolution!” Peter said, still wheedling and tickling the laughing Hank. “Come _on_ , Hank! We're bros! Join the shirtless protest! We guys have got to have each other's backs!” 

There was the soft sound of cloth hitting the floor, and everyone looked at Wanda, eyes widening in surprise to find that she'd taken her shirt off and was wearing just jeans and a bra, smirking. “Who said only _guys_ could join the protest?”

* * *

“Wait,” Pietro protested softly, grabbing Wanda's wrist, firm but gentle. “Not here.” 

Wanda looked up at him, amusement and starlight twinkling in her eyes. “Nobody will find us,” she murmured, sliding her hand under his shirt, over his bare chest. A kiss to cool lips, expressions of endearment veiled by darkness. A breath. “I promise.”

* * *

The shirtless revolution lasted for two days, and even Charles and Erik joined (mostly because they didn't have a choice, because Peter had stolen all their shirts). Guys were walking around completely shirtless, and the girls were walking around in bras or bikini tops. 

Peter had started a game where you held a hand symbol in front of your bare chest or abdomen, and if anyone looked at it then the had to throw their fist into the air and shout, “Viva la shirtless revolution!” The shouts were echoing through the mansion on a near-constant basis, accompanied by laughter. 

The revolution finally ended when Hank, working shirtless in his lab, designed a kind of shirt that could be wrapped around Warren's chest without having to be pulled over his wings. 

“Only my boyfriend,” Peter had grinned, leaning up to press his lips to the scientist's, briefly for Hank, not so brief for Peter. 

Hank looked away, flustered. “It was nothing,” he said. He glanced at Peter again, eyes softening, shining. Thumb tracing gentle circles over Peter's hipbone. “I'm still amazed you arranged such a movement only two weeks after being tortured and brainwashed.” 

Peter snorted. _“Please,”_ he said, poking Hank in the abs, “do you even _know_ how _long_ two weeks is for me?! I was recovered in, like, _three days._ ” 

“Get a _room_ , lovebirds,” Warren called at them, wearing one of the wrap-around shirts Hank had designed, which, from a distance, looked exactly like a regular close-fitting black muscle shirt. 

“Who you calling _birds_ , wing-dude,” Peter retorted, dashing over to rap his knuckles on one of Warren's metal wings. “Because the only bird here I see is _you._ ”

* * *

Peter had always liked hummingbirds. 

They were the only creatures whose hearts beat nearly as fast as his, and he loved watching them, their wingbeats one of the only movements he could actually watch happen with time slowed down around him nearly as slow as it could go. 

He loved watching them, counting their wingbeats. Most North American breeds beat their wings an average of fifty-three times a second, but he found a breed in South America that in a second beat its wings eighty times. 

True, they didn't flap their wings as fast as bees, who could flap their wings up to 230 times a second, but hummingbirds were more fun to watch. More beautiful, more elegant, more graceful, their wings art in motion, the most accomplished birds at hovering and the only birds that could fly backward. 

They had the highest metabolisms of all birds, needing to eat constantly in order to fuel their flight agility and survive. Peter could relate. If went on a long run and didn't steal snacks along the way, he returned several pounds lighter, ribs showing starkly. And most of the weight he'd lost was all muscle, since his unique physiology meant he had no layer of fat to speak of. 

A third of a hummingbird's total weight came from the muscles it used to fly. A fact Hank told him when he had caught Peter watching the hummingbirds at the hummingbird feeder he'd hung outside his window.

Peter liked walking around the hummingbirds while they were in the air, seeing the different ways the light caught on their iridescent feathers, the different colors. 

Sometimes he'd run beside them as they flew, follow them as they flitted from flower to flower, ignoring him while they'd fly away from anyone else. 

He saw one hit a window of the mansion, once, and hurried over, catching it before it hit the ground. 

He set it on a handtowel in a shoebox, sat down on a stone bench in the garden, far away from the chaos of the other students, waited with baited breath till the hummingbird collected itself and zipped away, Peter smiling as he watched it go. 

“Mein Kolibri,” Wanda called him fondly, when she found him in the garden, watching the hummingbirds chase each other around, a rare expression of peace on his face. 

Peter smiled at her when she took his hand, intertwining their fingers. “I just kinda relate to them, you know?” he said. 

Wanda squeezed his hand slightly. “I know.”

* * *

“You'll have to forgive my brother's impatience, Cyclops,” Wanda said, coming around to where Scott was flying the jet, snaking an arm around his tense shoulders, an expression of fury on his face. “Fifteen minutes must feel like _forever_ when your heart beats twenty-five times a second.”

“I don't _care_ how many times his heart beats, Wanda,” Scott growled out, jaw clenched in anger. “What kind of an excuse is that? Magneto organized this as a bloodless operation and Quicksilver _knew it_. We told them they'd have _fifteen minutes_ to evacuate their offices, but he set those bombs off in under three. Did he forget he's the only one around here who can break the freakin' _sound barrier?_ ”

“I'm sure Cyclops really meant to congratulate us for sabotaging Blair's plan for a fleet of British _Sentinels,_ ” Pietro said, kicked back in one of the jet's seats, seatbelt unbuckled and expression unconcerned. 

Sabretooth chuckled behind him.

“Man, I should make you people _walk_ back to the Savage Land for this one!” Scott growled at them. 

“Haha, Cyclops is _spewin'!_ ” Pyro cackled, kicking his feet up on the headrest of the empty seat in front of him. “No need to be so aggro, mate!” 

“One more sound out of any of you, and you're _walking!_ ” Scott snarled. _“I mean it!”_

“Sure, drop me off somewhere,” Pietro yawned, standing up and stretching. “I'll run back to the Savage Land. I could use the exercise. And I'll get there before you guys, anyway.”

* * *

“Let's have a race!” Peter grinned, rocking on his feet. “The Blackbird, Warren, and me.” 

Warren rolled his shoulders, tilting his head to the side and cracking his neck. “Everyone already knows what the outcome will be,” he pointed out. 

“So?” Peter asked, raising a silver eyebrow. 

“So you just want an ego boost, don't you,” Scott said, probably rolling his eyes behind his visor. 

“Warren also wants to prove that he's faster than Hank's jet,” Peter said, pointing at the winged mutant as if he were equally to blame. 

Warren was already shrugging off the too-large jacket he wore to cover up his wings. “I can't deny it.” 

Scott was about to protest, but Logan's hand on his shoulder silenced him. 

“The Blackbird gets a ten second head-start,” Logan said. He grinned, revealing slightly too-sharp canines. “And I'm driving.” 

Peter whooped as he and Warren high-fived. 

Scott followed a smirking Wolverine into the aircraft, saying, “Hank is going to _kill_ you for this.” 

Logan shrugged unconcernedly as he sat in the pilot's seat, checking the controls. “He can _try_ , bub. I know 'im, though, and ain't gonna kill fer this, 'long as I don't crash his plane. He's too damn nice.”

* * *

Hank's breath was warm; whispered words for the speedster's ears only, despite the fact that aside from them the lab was empty. 

“Shut up,” Peter grinned, stealing a quick kiss before he was suddenly on the other side of the room, examining his fingernails. “We both know you only love me because of my physics.”

“Your physics isn't the _entire_ reason why I love you,” Hank said, sitting down at his computer, a teasing smirk on his face even as he started typing away on what he'd been working on before his boyfriend interrupted him. “Maybe, like, _fifty percent_ of the reason.” 

“Oh?” Peter smirked, suddenly sitting on Hank's desk on top of his probably very-important papers. “So the reason you love me is, what, fifty percent _physics_ , fifty percent my _stunning personality?_ ”

“ _Ten percent_ your stunning personality,” Hank said, not looking away from his screen, though he was still smiling. “The other forty percent is your good looks.” 

“So _ninety percent_ of why you love me is my _physical attributes_ , huh?” Peter teased, pulling his legs up on the desk so he could lie down, legs bent, turning his head to watch the scientist. “Good to know where your values are.” 

When he caught Hank looking, he swiped his tongue over his lips, putting on his most lascivious expression, laughing Hank blushed and quickly looked away. 

“Well, maybe _fifteen percent_ your stunning personality,” Hank amended, trying to keep a straight face despite his rosy cheeks and lips that kept trying to twitch into a smile, “So only _eighty-five percent_ is your physical attributes.” 

And then Peter was behind him, arms wrapped around his neck, head resting on his shoulder while he continued to type. 

“As long as we're clear that the only reason I care about you is that you're really warm, and my dad doesn't like you,” Peter said sweetly. 

Hank shook his head, amused. “Should've dated Wolverine, for that.” 

“Yeah, but he has a metal skeleton,” Peter pointed out, making himself quite at home in Hank's lap, interrupting the scientist's likely very-important work. He draped his legs over the arm of the chair. “It would suck having a boyfriend that my dad can crumple into a ball.” 

“So part of the reason you love me is also that I have regular bones,” Hank said, grinning as he stroked his absent blue beard. “So you love me for my blood, my bones, and because your dad hates me.” 

“Basically,” Peter agreed. 

“So you don't find me even a little bit attractive?” Hank teased.

“Eh,” Peter said, sitting up and moving to straddle Hank's lap, running a hand up his chest. “As a human you're kinda attractive, I guess, in a boring and nerdy sorta way,” Peter said, pressing feather-light kisses to Hank's face. “You're hotter as a mutant what with blue and claws and fangs and the superstrength thing going on, but you get fur in my mouth.” 

“It's good to know you appreciate me for who I am,” Hank said, tilting his head as Peter teased his lips into a kiss. 

“Hey, what can I say?” Peter said, moving his lips to Hank's neck. “Sometimes a guy just wants to give his boyfriends hickies and have the show up, and not get fur in his mouth in the process.” 

Hank hummed, tilting his head back to allow the speedster better access. 

“Hey,” Peter said, pulling back, looking at him seriously, “at least you can turn your mutation on and off at will.” He poked Hank in the chest. “Not all of us can do that. Just look at Scott. Or at me. I can't turn my superspeed off. I have some control of the speed dial, so I can, in a way, sort of speed up or slow down time—which is a good thing, because if I were stuck at full speed all the time I would go crazy—but I can't turn it _off_. So I'm always going crazy just a little bit.” 

Peter's hands had been gesturing about in the air, but Hank grabbed them, pressing kisses to the speedster's knuckles. “Not all of us can be as amazing as you,” he murmured, looking up at Peter, blue eyes fond. 

“Well, obviously not,” Peter scoffed. He paused, then, taking one of Hank's hands in his own, turning it over, running a finger over the lines of Hank's palm. “Did you really try to cure yourself of your mutation?” he asked, quietly. 

“A long time ago, yes,” Hank admitted. “That serum is actually what gave me my blue form.” 

“If you could completely cure yourself of your mutation now, would you?” Peter asked, glancing up at him. 

“No, not any more,” Hank said honestly. “I've come to terms with it as who I am. It would feel…” he chuckled, “too weird, not to have my mutation. I'd be…” 

“Weak?” Peter suggested, a smirk dancing on his lips. 

“Yeah,” Hank agreed, lips quirking. A pause, before: “Would you get rid of yours, if you could?” 

“Pshht, not a chance!” Peter said. “My mutation is awesome!” A pause, wherein Peter looked down, plucking at Hank's shirt distractedly. “Although there was a time, when I was younger, before my superspeed kicked in and I just had the silver hair, that I wished I could just have normal hair,” he said, still not looking up. “There was a lot of bullying, you know? But then my superspeed kicked in, and everything changed, and suddenly it didn't matter what color my hair was, because nobody could touch me.” 

“I'm sorry you had to go through that,” Hank said, taking Peter's hand, stilling its nervous fiddling. “My mutation was always something I could hide, as long as I avoided taking my shoes off for anything. Other than that it wasn't too hard. I just felt like a freak. Being a genius helped in avoiding bullying, but it didn't help me feel more normal.”

“Yeah, it must suck being a genius,” Peter said, lips quirking. “Having to be around all these people who are way slower than you… you know, intellectually.” 

“Can't be that different from what you experience,” Hank said. He smiled slightly. “You're pretty intelligent yourself.” 

“Nah, I'm no genius,” Peter said, shaking his head. “I'm just fast. I just kinda repeat things until I finally get them. Lets me get ahead of the game and _appear_ as if I'm a genius. And I get bored, and there isn't much else to do but go places, steal stuff, and learn new things.” He shrugged. “Spent a week wandering around France with a French-English dictionary and was fluent by the time I was done. And then I did the same in a few other countries simply because I could. And superspeed is a very physics-based power, so I spent a lot of time teaching myself physics so I could better understand what I can do.” Another shrug. “Think I spent a few weeks on that.”

“So not only do you have superspeed, you also have supertenacity,” Hank said, smiling. 

Peter shrugged again. “I have to. I'd run out of things to do if I got bored easily.” 

“How ironic it is, then, that to everyone else you appear to have the attention span of a goldfish,” Hank remarked. 

“ _A goldfish on crack_ , I believe is the term most frequently used,” Peter said, lips quirking as he looked up to meet Hank's eyes. 

“Ah yes,” Hank said, amused. “How could I forget the illegal drug part of the phrase. It's obviously more important than the goldfish.” 

Peter laughed. “Sometimes I can't tell when you're being sarcastic,” he said, not looking like he actually cared. 

“I love everything about you, Peter,” Hank told him, holding his gaze, blue eyes so honest they almost looked pained. 

“That was sarcasm, right?” Peter teased. 

“No, it wasn't,” Hank said, arms around Peter's hips, gaze never looking away from Peter's face. “I mean it. I love everything about you. Not just your physics.”

“Oh. Okay.” Peter's lips curled. “It was just awkward, then.” 

“I love you, Peter,” Hank said, even though the speedster was no longer in his arms, suddenly sitting on Hank's desk licking an almost-finished popsicle. 

Hank paused. “Does… does that make you want to run away, now that we're not joking about it?” he asked uncertainly, watching the speedster finish off the popsicle and start biting the stick. 

“Are you kidding?” Peter snorted, the popsicle stick falling into the trashcan as the speedster was once more sitting on Hank's lap, poking him in the chest. “Why would I want to run away from that? You know all the things that people who love you will let you get away with?”

Hank's eyes were laughing. “Murder?”

“Say it again,” Peter said. 

Hank raised his eyebrows. “Murder?” he said again, questioningly. 

“No,” Peter said, poking him again. “The other thing.” 

“Does that make you want to run away, now that we're not joking about it?” Hank tried, though he seemed to have realized what Peter actually wanted him to say, because his lips were quirked in amusement. 

“No, the other one,” Peter said, nearly whining as he poked Hank again. 

Hank grabbed his hand to prevent any more prodding, but when he looked at Peter like he was the most amazing thing in the universe. “I love you, Peter.”

“That's the one!” Peter grinned, moving his arms around Hank's neck, leaning closer, eyes alight. “Say it again.”

Hank's heart skipped a beat. “I love y—”

Peter kissed him, too impatient to wait for him to finish the words.

* * *

“Peter, have patience—” the Prof started.

“Patience?!” Peter shrieked. _“Patience?! You try living your life at the speed I do and having patience! I've been plenty patient! Do you even know what it's like to spend your entire life feeling like a total, useless loser, to finally have something good where you've found what you're good at but then still be treated like a useless loser?! I've been told that I'm not good and can't do anything right my entire life and you expect me to be 'patient' and let that one-eyed loser treat me like I'm no good and can't do anything right?! Fighting is what I was fucking MADE for, I can feel it!”_

“Peter,” the Prof said, as the speedster stood there panting, fists clenched, dark eyes livid. “I can tell that you're upset, but I have no idea what you just said. You were speaking too fast.” 

Peter was about to spit out a Fuck you, when he happened to look behind the Prof and see Erik Lensherr standing there, watching him. 

Peter froze, staring at him. 

“You deal with the other students, Charles,” Erik said, eyes not leaving Peter's. “I'll deal with Peter.” 

The Prof looked back at his 'old friend,' and they seemed to share a psychic conversation, before the Prof nodded and wheeled off towards the Danger Room. 

And then it was just Quicksilver and Magneto.

Peter wanted to spit out, _“What do you want, dad?!”_ but thought better of it and grit his mouth shut. 

A split second later and he was sitting on the floor against the wall a few feet away, legs pulled up to his chest. 

Erik walked over and crouched next to him. “Peter.”

“What are you doing here, Mags?' Peter muttered.

“Mags?” Erik asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Short for Magneto,” Peter grumbled out. “You know, like Mystique is Mysty, the Professor is Prof, Cyclops is Cyke, Nightcrawler is Indigo, because he's indigo, Beast is Blue, because he's blue, Jubilee is Jubes, Iceman is Icester, Shadowcat is Kitty—which is her actual name anyway, but also whatever—Storm is 'Ro—which is actually short for Ororo, because that's her real name, and 'Storm' doesn't shorten well, and 'Stormy' is just weird—and Rogue is Sugah, because she started calling me Sugah first so I'm calling her that back, and—”

“Alright, I get it,” Erik said, cutting him off. 

_I really want to call you Dadneto, though_ , Peter didn't say. 

Erik put a hand on the speedster's shoulder, and Peter flinched. 

“Peter,” Erik said.

 _Pietro_ , Peter wanted to say. _My real name is Pietro. Pietro Mateo Maximoff. My sister is Wanda Django Maximoff, and our mom is Magda Eisenhardt Maximoff. Does any of that sound familiar?_

 _You're kind of my dad_ , Peter wanted to say. 

“You're a very powerful mutant, Quicksilver,” Erik said, and Peter felt his heart leap into his throat. He looked up at Erik with wide, surprised eyes, and Erik gave him a small smile. “I know what what that feels like, to be more powerful than anyone knows, and to be held back by peoples' limited expectations.” 

He squeezed Peter's shoulder. “I wish I had some better advice to give you. I'm not telling you to listen to the kid with the visor—” Peter probably shouldn't have felt so pleased that Erik remembered his name but didn't remember Scott's “—but just because you have the power to do something, like blow up an entire facility, doesn't mean that you should.”

“Like just because you can lift up an entire baseball stadium and kill the President doesn't mean you should do that,” Peter muttered, lips twitching. _And just because my sister probably has the power to alter the entirety of reality doesn't mean that she should do that._

“...Yes,” Erik said. “Exactly.” 

“How do you deal with that?” Peter asked, breath choking, burying his face in his knees. His voice was muffled. “How do you deal with knowing that you could kill everyone here before they had time to so much as blink, but they still treat you like you're incapable of doing anything but run away? At least you and Jeannie get people's fear and respect. Am I just that much of a _joke_ that no one can take me seriously?” 

Erik's hand tightened reassuringly around his shoulder. “It's a good idea to keep some things up your sleeve. You don't need everyone to know how dangerous you are. It's better if they don't. You don't want to be feared by everyone if you don't have to be.” 

“And you have to be?”

“I don't have a choice. I thought I never did.”

Pietro blinked in surprise as Erik sat down next to him, leaning his head back against the wall. “Fear invites violence. Humans' fear of me killed my wife and daughter.”

Peter looked at him. Something clicked. “The Prof told you, didn't he?” 

“Told me what?” Erik said, straight-faced, but there might have been amusement in his blue eyes. 

“That I'm your son,” Pietro said. 

Erik smiled slightly. “I assure you, he didn't mean to. It was quite an accident that he let it slip when he was grumbling about how much you remind him of me and how apparently the apple doesn't fall that far from the tree.” 

Peter snorted, letting his own head fall back against the wall. “Is that why you left, and didn't come back for so long?” 

“Suddenly realizing you're a father of a twenty-seven-year-old who's a mutant and who you never recognized as your own despite having ample opportunity to is not the easiest thing to deal with,” Erik said softly.

“Yeah,” Peter said, “I didn't think it would be. That's part of why, after your wife and daughter died, I didn't tell you… I didn't think...” 

“It's okay,” Erik said. “I've had time to come to terms with it now.” 

Peter laughed, suddenly. “Geez, I should thank the Prof for letting it slip. I don't know if I ever would have gathered the courage to tell you myself. I had this idea in my head that it would be the reverse of that 'Luke, I am your father' seen in Star Wars, all dramatic and shit, with one us—probably me—no, wait, totally you—bleeding out from an amputated limb.” 

Erik chuckled softly beside him. “I would hope it wouldn't have been that bad.” 

“This is kinda much more anticlimatic than anything I'd been expecting,” Peter said. “This is… weird.”

Erik hummed. “Yes, I suppose it is.” 

“Did… did the Prof let it slip that...” Peter started, biting his lip.

Erik raised an eyebrow. “Did Charles let what slip?”

“That I...”

“That you like guys?” Erik said. 

Peter whirled to look at him, dark eyes wide. “Goddammit, he _did_ let it slip!” 

He didn't, actually,” Erik said, smiling slightly. “It was just a guess. I've seen you with Hank.”

Peter deflated, spine curving as he rested his chin on his knees, blowing silver strands of hair out of his face. “We're that obvious, huh?”

“A little bit,” Erik said, lips quirking. 

Peter sent him a sideways glance. “And you don't have a problem with that?” 

“It would be rather hypocritical of me, wouldn't it,” Erik said, “considering my relationship with Charles.”

Peter sat up straight again, eyebrows darting upwards as he blurted, “You mean you and Charles—?!”

“Yes,” Erik said, fighting not to laugh. 

Peter whistled. “Damn,” he said. He looked away again, a hand sliding down his shin to play with the neon blue laces of his silver shoes. “So… did you love my mother, then?”

“Of course I did,” Erik said, vehemently but not harshly. “I am—,” his tone became lighter, more uncertain: “what is it you call it?” 

“Bisexual?” Peter suggested, his turn to try not to laugh.

“Yes,” Erik said, nodding, either oblivious of or determined to ignore his son's amusement. “That's the one.” 

“So,” Peter said, tilting his head, a smirk dancing at superspeed around the edges of his lips. “The Prof didn't let it slip that I have a twin sister, then?” 

Erik's jaw dropped, eyes widening exponentially. “You what?!”

“IIIIIIIII haaaaaaaaavvvve aaaaa twiiiiiiiiiiiin siiiiiiiiisteeeeeeerrrrrrr,” Peter repeated slowly, the smirk all-out lounging on his lips like a leopard in a tree. 

Erik looked practically shellshocked. “You… have a twin sister...” 

The leopard pounced, and Peter laughed. “That's what I said, old man. Her name is Wanda, and she could kick your ass to kingdom come six ways to Sunday.”

* * *

Pietro screamed, falling to the ground, clutching his bleeding, shattered kneecaps. 

“PIETRO!” Wanda yelled, running to his side and dropping to her knees next to him, pulling him into her arms, auburn waves falling into her face. _“Pietro.”_

“You don't need him,” Magneto said, looming above them. “He is weak and disloyal.” He held out his hand. “Come with me, daughter. Together we will turn this hateful world into a better one.” 

Still clutching her brother's sobbing, whimpering form, Wanda looked up, eyes illuminated scarlet. _“You will stay AWAY from us!”_ she screamed at him, one hand raised, scarlet energy enveloping him, forcing him back. 

“Wanda—” he started, stumbling, raising his arms in front of his face to try and shield himself. 

Laying her brother gently on the ground, Wanda stood up, lifting her other hand, focusing all her energy on the Master of Magnetism. _“You **hypocrite!** You say you want peace and the safety of mutantkind, but then you **cripple your own son!** ”_

“He's pathetic!” Magneto snapped, doing his best to stand against the onslaught of energy, an electromagnetic shield around him. “He's doing nothing but holding you back! You are capable of so much more, Wanda! Under my guidance, you—”

 _“You're nothing but a **human being** ,”_ Wanda snarled at him, hair and cape swirling in the energy whipping around her. _“Just as capable of doing **terrible things** as the people you claim to **hate** and be **better than!** You want to know who the **monster** here is, Magneto?! **Look in the goddamn mirror!** ”_

Magneto's protests turned to screams, the scarlet flaring brighter as it tore right through his forcefield, seeming to burn him away. 

When Wanda stopped, there was nothing there but wisps of light red smoke curling from the ground. 

“W… Wanda…” 

Wanda knelt down, pulling her brother into her arms. “Shh, darling,” she murmured, brushing silver hair from his pained face as she heard Hank finally snap out of his shock enough to call out that he was getting medical supplies, running out of the room. “I've got you.”

* * *

Erik managed to gather himself from the shock of discovering he had another twenty-seven-year-old kid to say, “She sounds… remarkable.” 

“Believe me,” Peter grinned. “She is. But,” he continued, uncoiling from his position in a ball to lean over and poke his father in the arm, grin growing positively impish, “if you want to hear any more about her, then you're going to have to tell me about you and Charles, because what the _fuck_ , man—how the hell did _that_ ever happen?” 

Erik sighed, rubbing his forehead. “It's a long story.” 

“Then you better start telling it, dude,” Peter said, smirking. “We don't have all the time in the world, y'know. Life is short!” 

Erik sighed, moving his hands down to rest on his knees as he folded his legs in front of him. “Very well, then. I tell you about Charles and I, and you'll tell me more about your and Wanda's childhood?” 

“Nah, man, a story for a story,” Peter said, shaking his head. “You tell me about you and Charles, and I'll tell you some more about Wanda, and maybe let you meet her. You want to hear about me and Wanda's childhood you're gonna have to tell us about _your_ childhood. Fair is fair is fair.” 

“That doesn't sound very fair,” Erik remarked.

“Life isn't fair,” Peter reminded him, unnecessarily. “So just hurry up and start talking already!” He poked the Master of Magnetism in the arm. Repeatedly. “Get talking! So. So so so. You and Charles…?”

* * *

Peter ran into the Professor's office, shouting “Prof!” unnecessarily loudly, only to freeze, eyes wide.

Because Erik was there, and he and Charles were naked, and their clothes were tossed on the floor, and there was the desk, and oh god, that could not be sanitary—

“HOLYFUCKWHATTHEHELLAREYOUTWODOINGIDIDNOTNEEDTOSEETHISOHGODI'MGOINGTOHAVETOSCRUBMYBRAINOUTANDGUYSTHISISANOFFICEANDANYONECANJUSTWALKINHEREWHATTHEFUCK?!” Peter yelled, an hand over his eyes, before he turned around and sped out of the room.

“...The door was locked,” Erik said after an awkward moment. 

“You mean the door is locked,” Charles corrected. “He can vibrate through, remember?” 

“What kind of parent doesn't teach their son to knock before entering a room?” Erik grumbled. 

“An absent one, apparently.” 

Erik growled. “Shut up, Charles, and put that mouth of yours to better use.”

* * *

_“You have to get better, Peter,”_ Erik whispered, head bent over Peter's hand clasped in both of his. _“Please_ , my son. My _son._ ” His breath hitched, eyes clenched shut against the tears that threatened to spill forth. _“My son.”_

The heart-rate monitor was flat-lining, unable to detect the speed at which Peter's heart was beating, too fast, too fast, but Erik had been assured that Peter was still alive despite his seemingly nonexistent heartbeat and cold skin. 

“For someone so full of life, it's hard to actually scientifically detect that he's alive,” Hank had said, smiling wryly, sadly, worriedly. “I recommend trying to balance a glass of water on his chest to see if it vibrates and falls over. Just be ready to catch the glass so it doesn't spill water on him.” 

The glass of water was on the bedside table, where it would stay. 

_“Mein Sohn,”_ Erik whispered, tears trickling from clenched-shut eyes. _“Es tut mir leid. Es tut mir leid. Bitte. Du musst überleben.”_

Peter had been in critical condition when they'd found him. Those humans had used him as a lab-rat, had tried to turn him into their own remote-control soldier. And they'd almost killed him. 

Charles had never had a chance of keeping Magneto from killing those men. 

Erik sat up slightly, blinking to clear his vision, reaching out a hand to gently brush a few strands of silver hair out of Peter's face. He slowly retracted his trembling hand.

He'd though that Peter would be safe, with Charles. He'd thought that Peter would be safe, as long as he stayed away from him. As long as Magneto didn't place a target on Peter's back. 

He'd thought that Charles would be able to keep Peter safe. Erik had been wrong. Erik had stayed away, and Peter had gotten captured, and Charles had waited over a week before letting Erik know. 

Erik had trusted Charles. But he couldn't trust _anyone_ , he realized. 

_He_ would not have let Peter get captured. And even if Peter had been captured under his watch, he would have saved him immediately. It would not have taken _him_ over a week, and he would not have needed the help of both his enemy and a guy who'd been living with wolves and could hardly remember how to speak. 

Erik had made a mistake. He would not make the same mistake again. 

This time, Peter was coming with him.

* * *

As soon as Hank opened the mansion door, his heart plummeted into his stomach, and he wished he'd hadn't answered the knocking.

Because standing there on the terrace was none other than Erik Lensherr. “I'm here for Peter,” he said. His voice was made for speeches, not for polite conversation. “I'm here for my son.” 

“I know who your son is,” Hank said, leaning against the door-frame, keeping the door mostly closed. “He doesn't need you. _Leave_ , Magneto.” 

Erik looked at him, unimpressed. “I need to speak with him.” 

Hank gave an exasperated laugh, looking at him in disbelief. “You're going to try to recruit him to the Brotherhood, aren't you?” 

“My business is with him alone,” Erik said. Always so intense. How had this guy ever found a wife, again? 

“He doesn't need you, Erik,” Hank told him. “You weren't there for Peter when he was growing up, and he never needed you then. And now Peter's an adult, and he certainly doesn't need you now.”

“If he's an adult, then why don't you let him make his own decisions instead of speaking for him?” Erik suggested, eyes narrowed, a warning note in his tone. 

“Oh, hey Dadneto!” Peter was suddenly standing there next to Hank, grinning, the front door thrown wide open. “Was my boyfriend pissing you off?” 

Erik blinked. “Boyfriend?” 

“Yeah, Hank is my boyfriend,” Peter said, slinging an arm around Hank's shoulders. “Because having silver hair and superspeed obviously didn't make me freakish enough. I just had to like boys, too.” 

“You're not a freak,” Erik said, almost protectively. “And you should never have to think of yourself as such.” 

Hank felt a snarl curling at his lips, but Peter just grinned. “That's really nice of you! Thanks, dad!” Almost without pausing, he switched subjects to, “Hey, what are you doing here, anyway?” 

To Erik's credit, he seemed to take Peter's devil-may-care attitude in stride. “I came to offer you an invitation.”

“To what?” Peter asked, appearing interested. “A party?”

“No,” Erik said. He glanced disparagingly at Hank, who was glaring at him. “Could we speak privately, Peter?” 

“Nah, anything you can say in front of me, you can say in front of my boyfriend,” Peter grinned, seemingly oblivious to the mood as he kept an arm slung around Hank's shoulders, leaning into him.

Erik lifted his chin, seeming to straighten his regal posture impossibly further. “Very well,” he said. “I would like you to join my Brotherhood of Mutants, my son.” 

“Thanks for the invitation, Dadneto, but no thanks,” Peter said cheerfully. 

Erik narrowed his eyes at him. “What?” 

“Nooooooo thaaaaaaanks,” Peter repeated slowly. He then elaborated, “I don't want to leave. I like it here.” He sent Hank a grin, as if to prove his point. 

Erik stared at them both for a few moments. “Very well,” he said finally, taking a step back, gaze settling on his son. “But know that the offer remains open, if you ever change your mind.” 

“Cool, thanks dad,” Peter grinned. “It's good to know that if my career as a superhero fails, becoming a high-profile terrorist is always an option.” 

Erik had already turned and started walking away. 

“You should stop by to hang out sometime when you're busy with super important acts of terrorism!” Peter called loudly after him, and Hank could have sworn he saw Erik's shoulders tense. 

“You're incredible,” Hank told Peter, once Magneto was gone and they were back inside. Hank chuckled. “You just sassed Magneto, and he didn't try to murder you.” 

“I'm not scared of him,” Peter shrugged. “And who are you to talk, anyway?” He poked Hank in the arm. “You totally rubbed it in his face that he was never there for me when I was a kid!”

Hank felt his face heating up. “You saw that?” 

“I did,” Peter nodded. “It was very brave. It's nice to know that my boyfriend supports me in not becoming a terrorist like my dad.” 

Hank gave an awkward grin. “Well, really I just don't want you to leave me.” 

“Don't worry, if I ever become a terrorist, I'll kidnap you and take you with me so we can be terrorists together,” Peter assured him, patting him on the shoulder.

Hank laughed. “I'd appreciate that.”

* * *

It haunted Erik, sometimes. 

That what-ifs. The could-have-beens. 

He watched Peter and Wanda as they fought against him, unable to connect with them, and wondered what their lives would be like if he'd been there for them when they were growing up. If he'd never left Magda. 

Would they be on the same side as him? Would they have had easier lives? Harder ones? Would they have loved him? Would they have hated him? 

He tried to remind himself that there was no point in what-ifs and could-have-beens, but it was hard to discharge the thoughts, sometimes. 

He could only have hoped he would have been a good father. He thought he'd done a pretty good job with Nina, for the few precious years she'd lived. 

But it begged the question: if Erik had never left, would Peter and Wanda still be alive, as they were now? Or would they have had the same tragic deaths as Nina? 

And he'd calmed down, by the time he'd had Nina. Aged some, wisened up some. When he'd been engaged to Magda, he had still been young and filled with so much anger, angry at the entire world. 

He hadn't been the best boyfriend or fiancé, he realized now. He'd been obsessed with finding Shaw and getting revenge for what had been done to him, to his parents. 

Erik wondered, now, if his anger at the time would have affected his ability to be a loving and supportive father. 

He couldn't blame Magda for never trying to contact him, after she'd found she was pregnant. 

He thought about going to see Magda, to talk to her, but he could never get himself to. He was scared, he hated to admit to himself. He wanted to know how her life had been after they'd parted. He wanted to know what Peter and Wanda had been like growing up. But he could never bring himself to. 

So he tried to ignore it, the desire to know. He tried to ignore the what-ifs and could-have-beens, tried to shove away any hope of discovering anything that could possibly bring him closer to his children. 

He tried to ignore all the thoughts, but they haunted him sometimes.

* * *

Pietro's frantic yells and please came muffled through the closet door that shuddered as he tried desperately to break it down. “Let me out! Let me out let me out let me out! I promise I won't do it again, I promise! _I promise!_ ” Sobbing, crying. _“I'll do anything you say! Please! Just let me out, and I promise I'll do whatever it takes to make it up to you!”_ Hysterics. 

“You have to let me go to him, father!” Wanda begged, gripping Erik's shirt, looking up at him with scared, pleading eyes. “He can't be alone! He needs me!” 

Erik disengaged himself from his young daughter roughly. “Your brother needs the time to _reflect_ on his wrongdoings,” Erik said coldly. “To _grow_.” 

“But he's _scared!_ ” Wanda said, tears streaming down her face. “You know how he hates being trapped in small places and being alone!” 

“He needs to learn not to disobey me, then,” Erik said, starting to stride out of the room. “He's a _disappointment_. Weak.” 

Wanda grabbed onto the back of his shirt. “He's already _promised!_ ” she cried, clenching her fingers in the fabric. “He's already promised that he'll be better! So why are you keeping him in there?!” 

A litany of pleas and apologies and promises had been streaming from the closet, but finally the banging and shouting ceased, everything going silent. 

The silence was worse than the yelling, and Wanda cried over. “You have to let him out, daddy!” 

“Impudent child,” Erik snarled, whirling around and back-handing her, the young girl falling to the ground as she sobbed harder. “Do not _question me_ , girl! Or I'll put _you_ in solitary confinement as well!”

He turned and strode out of the room, leaving Wanda sobbing on the floor, a hand to her stinging cheek. 

“Pietro,” she said, crawling over to the closet door, placing her hand on the wood that had been reinforced with metal. “Pietro, can you hear me? Pietro, _say something_ , please.” 

She cried harder when she received no answer.

* * *

Magda smiled at him when she answered the door, her eyes laughing. “Forget your keys again, Erik?” 

Erik stepped into his— _their_ —house, wrapping an arm around her waist as he kissed her, his other hand gently closing the door behind him. 

“I keep forgetting, since I don't need keys to unlock the door,” he said, smiling as he pulled back, before dipping his head down to press a quick kiss to her neck. “And I _could_ manipulate the lock mechanism to open, but I like it better when you have to come to the door to greet me.” 

Magda laughed as she twined her fingers together at the back of his neck, giving a little shake of her head to toss auburn waves out of her face. “Hm, is that so?” 

“You look radiant,” he told her, kissing her again. “How was your day?” 

“Fine,” she said, but the light in her eyes dimmed slightly. “Pietro got picked on at school again.” 

Erik let out a breath, his heart clenching. “Injuries?” 

“Nothing too bad,” Magda said, straightening Erik's collar, undoing the first couple buttons of his shirt so he didn't look so staid. “A few bruises, but they didn't get his face this time.” 

Erik sighed. “We need to enroll him in self-defense classes. Wanda, too. I've been looking at nearby karate dojos, and I think I've found one that will work well for them.” 

Magda nodded, pursing her lips. “As long as that won't encourage him to get into more fights.” 

“He needs to be able to defend himself,” Erik said, a hand under her chin as he tilted her head up so she'd look at him. He offered her a reassuring smile. “He'll be fine. They both will.” 

There was a _crash_ , the sound of ceramic shattering, and Erik and Magda looked at each other. 

Magda raised an eyebrow. “You were saying…?” but there was a fondness in her exasperation. 

Erik sighed. “I'll deal with it,” he said, pressing another quick kiss to her lips before stepping away, walking to the kitchen to see what had happened. 

He found Pietro and Wanda standing there with wide eyes, one of their mother's vases in shards at their feet, water and flowers spilled across the floor. 

“It was my fault!” they said at the same time, not quite in sinc, Pietro's voice slightly faster but Wanda's slightly louder. “I was the one who knocked it over!” And then they started glaring and hissing for the other one not to take the blame for something that they didn't do.

One of them was lying, and one of them was telling the truth. But they were both equally desperate to take the blame, as seeing the other punished would be far worse for each of them than being punished themselves. 

It was anyone's guess which of them had actually knocked the vase over. They both were equally destructive—even without having developed their mutations yet, aside from Pietro's silver hair that he'd had from birth—and they were both equally as likely to try to take the blame for something the other had done. Erik had seen them both try to take the heat for the other, even when he'd actually seen who'd done it, and they knew that he'd seen it. 

It made Erik's heart ache. He was so incredibly blessed to have such beautiful, remarkable children. 

He loved them. He loved them with all his heart. 

And while the way they protected each other filled him with pride, it still hurt to see them react so intensely to having done anything wrong. Had he ever done anything to make afraid of punishment, of failure? 

Kneeling down, Erik hushed them, watching as they silenced their bickering and turned to him with wide eyes, bright green and dark brown. 

“Both of you will help me clean up the shards,” he said. He offered a smile. “And then tomorrow we'll go shopping and find your mom a new, better vase, that you will then be more careful not to break. Yes?” 

They nodded fervently, and Erik smiled as he stood up, ruffling their hair. “Good. Now, I'm going to show you how to clean up the shards without cutting yourself, so watch closely.” 

Magda found them later having a pillow-fight in the living room, Erik grinning as he crawled around on his knees on the carpet, grabbing either one of the twins and pretending to try to bite their feet before the other one charged at him with a pillow and he let himself get smacked in the face, before letting go of the twin he'd grabbed and taking the pillow he'd been hit with to throw into the other twin's face, making the stumble back, all of them laughing. 

Magda leaned against the doorframe, smiling as she watched.

* * *

Hank opened the mansion door expecting Logan to be standing there, back from wherever he disappeared to weeks at a time. So when he was greeted instead by a woman with green hair, green eyes, and green lips, he was obviously curious.

“Hello,” he said, though he kept a hand on the door. “Can I help you?”

He sent out a psychic warning that there was a stranger at the door, and Scott and Jean replied that they'd be right there to provide back-up if it was needed. 

“My name is Lorna Dane,” she said. “I'm here for my father, half-sister, and half-brother.”

“Uh,” Hank said, smiling confusedly. 

“You may know them as Magneto, the Scarlet Witch, and Quicksilver,” Lorna said. 

Hank's mouth opened, but did not close. 

_“Seriously?!”_ exclaimed Scott, stepping out from behind the door to look at Lorna in astonishment. “Magneto has yet _another_ kid?!” 

“Guys, she's not lying,” Jean said, a hand to her temple. “She really _is_ Erik's daughter.” 

Lorna's green lips pressed into a mirthless smile. “So. Are you going to let me in?” 

Silently, still stunned, Hank stepped back and let her step inside.

* * *

Erik stepped into the lab, looking around until he saw Hank, carefully making his way around all the scientific gadgets to come up to the scientist's desk, standing in front of him, radiating annoyance. “You wanted to talk to me?” 

“Yeah,” Hank said, gesturing for him to come around the desk, shoving a stack of papers at him. “Look at these.” 

Erik raised an eyebrow, before using his powers to pull over a chair, sitting down as he began flipping through the documents, frowning. “What am I looking at?” 

“All the data I've gathered on you, Peter, Wanda, and Lorna,” Hank said, watching him. “Bloodwork, DNA tests, medical records, power measurements and diagnostics.” 

Erik glanced up at him. “What does it mean?” 

“It means that you better not have any more children,” Hank told him, “because you are all essentially _weapons of mass destruction with a propensity for mental illness._ ” 

Erik huffed out a disbelieving breath, looking up at Hank in something near amusement as he set the papers back down on the desk. “Seriously?” he said. 

“Believe me, Erik,” Hank said, meeting his gaze soberly. “I'm being _completely_ serious. If you and your children aren't careful, then any one of you could end up killing _hundreds of thousands_ of people, if not millions or billions. Maybe even without meaning to.” 

Erik smiled dubiously. “I'm not sure that I believe you.” 

“Look,” Hank said, taking the stack of papers, pointing out certain figures. “You and Lorna? You can both manipulate electromagnetic fields. What happens if one of you loses your mind, and you pull that stint you did with Apocalypse, and don't stop? Or if you manipulate the Earth's magnetic pole, so that you actually _change the planet's axis?_ ” 

Another page, more figures. “And Peter? Erik, Peter can run _a little over the tenth of the speed of light_. It may not sound like it, but that is incredibly, _insanely_ fast. Anything he decides to do, he's basically _unstoppable._ ” 

Another page, more figures. “And _Wanda?_ Erik, Wanda has the power to _alter reality_. If she uses her powers and says something like, _'No more mutants,'_ well, guess what? _No more mutants._ ” 

Erik stared at the documents, expression blank. 

_“Erik,”_ Hank said, leaning forward, looking at him grimly. “That amount of power, coupled with the fact that _all_ of you have, at some point or another, suffered from _mental breakdowns, depression, or mania?_ Erik, not only are you guys a danger to the everyone around you, you're a danger to the entire _world_ , you're a danger to _each other_ , and you're a danger to _yourselves._ ” 

Erik looked at him, eyes steely. “And what is it,” he said slowly, “that you expect me to do about that, Hank?” 

“Just…” Hank sighed, leaning back in his chair, a hand rubbing over his face. “Just try to keep yourself and your children _emotionally stable_ , okay? If any of you lose it, there's not telling what will—”

* * *

“—and now they're _dead!_ ” Pietro shouted, tears streaming down his face. “All of them!” A broken sob, choked. “My people— _my_ people— _mutants_ —are being killed—and it's because of _me!_ ” 

Pietro had his face buried in his father's chest, fingers clenching Magneto's shirt. “Because I can never do anything _right_ —I try and I _try_ and—every time, I _ruin_ —”

“Ssshh,” Erik said softly, hugging Pietro to him. “Sshh… hush, now… that's enough of that. You did your _best_. You've been strong, and you've been faithful to the cause. I would _never_ ask you for more than that…” 

Tears poured down Pietro's face, so fast that they were not teardrops but tear _streams_. “You—you're not angry with me?” Disbelief. Pain. The voice of someone who'd expected to be thrown away, punished harshly for his failure, clinging desperately to that supposed executioner for any kind of comfort before the blade of the guillotine fell.

 _“Angry?”_ Erik said, rubbing comforting circles into his son's back. “Pietro… someday I hope you yourself will come to know all that I feel for you right now. It is not anger. It is the love of a _father_ for his _son._ ” 

“They're _dead,_ ” Pietro sobbed again, clenching shut dark waterfall eyes. _“And it's all my fault.”_

* * *

“Are you dead?” Peter asked, poking the large lump under the blankets, grinning when the lump shifted and grumbled. “HEY DAD!” he yelled, poking the lump again. “I THINK WANDA'S DEAD!” 

The lump grumbled something, rising up and then flopping over onto his lap. 

“DAAAAD!” Peter yelled, laughing as he tried to push away the lump that had attached itself to him, blanketed arms around his waist. “I THINK WANDA'S A ZOMBIE! SHE'S TRYING TO EAT ME!” 

There was the sound of footsteps, and a bleary-eyed Erik stuck his head into the room, rubbing at his eyes, hair sticking up all over the place, face unshaven. “...What's wrong?” he mumbled, blinking at his preteen children. 

_“Ugh!”_ Peter cried, looking between his half-asleep father and his clingy-half asleep sister who was trying to pull him inside her blanket realm and turn him into a sedentary lump as well. “You are both _snails!_ ” 

Wanda grumbled and blindly hit him in the back of the head with a pillow.

* * *

Pietro panted slightly as he lay back against the pillow. “This is wrong,” he said, but his voice was questioning.

“There's nothing wrong with this, Pietro,” Wanda murmured, tracing her fingers over his bare chest, leaning down to kiss his bare skin. “We both want it.” 

“I know, Wanda, it's just…” Pietro struggled for the words, never trying to push her away. “I think it would be better if… I mean, what if everyone finds out? What if—” 

“Do you love me?” Wanda asked, green eyes searching his, her hand resting against his cheek. 

“Of course,” he murmured, leaning into the touch. 

“Are you in love with me?” she asked, lips a hairsbreadth from his. 

He exhaled. “You know that I am.”

She kissed the corner of his lips, a hand pressed delicately to cool skin. “And neither of us would ever hurt the other,” she murmured, pulling back to look at him softly. 

“No,” he agreed, interlacing his fingers with hers. “Never.” 

She brushed a strand of silver hair out of his eyes. “How can a love so pure be wrong, then?” 

“It's… I… that's not…” he sighed, sitting up, taking her face in his hand and gently kissing her jaw. “Wanda, if we keep this up, we're going to crash and burn.” 

Her breath was warm over his ear, making him shiver, an arm snaking around his shoulders. “Crash and burn with me, then.” 

“That's a lot to ask of someone, you know,” he murmured, turning his head to meet her gaze, the moonlight from the windows catching on his eyes. 

“I know,” Wanda whispered, the back of a knuckle running over his cheek. “But you want to.” 

He pressed his lips to her palm. “I do.” 

“Then don't leave me,” she whispered, and pulled her brother into a searing kiss.

* * *

Erik barely managed to create an electromagnetic forcefield before the was a blast of searing heat enveloped him. 

He braced himself, arms crossed in front of his face, boots digging into the ground as resisted the force, everything flashing white around him.

When the explosion passed, he ran towards the epicenter of the blast, falling to his knees beside his children's bodies.

“No…” he whispered, gently pulling them from their embrace, already-bloodied fingers pressing to pulse points. “No…” there was _so much blood_ , both of their bodies riddle with bullets. “No,” Erik said, strangled, shaking. _“NO!”_

This couldn't be happening to him again. His family dead in his arms, killed right in front of him. _This couldn't be happening again._

Erik was laughing, holding his dead children in his arms, because it was _funny_ , wasn't it? The way the world gave him happiness and then tore it from him. Every time he started to come to terms with the world, tried to live peacefully, his reminded—brutally, _brutally_ reminded—why the world as it was needed to be destroyed. 

He had nothing left to protect— _nothing_. 

And the X-Men were gone, now, too. He couldn't sense them, not after the blast. 

The world had taken his daughter, his son, and made the boy take away the only people who could have stopped him. 

It was like God _wanted_ him to destroy the world. 

Erik laughed, tears streaming down his face, chest feeling like a gaping, bleeding hole as he laid his dead children on the ground and stood up, tilting his head to the sky. “This is what you want from, isn't it? _This is what you want. What I was meant to do._ ”

He felt something die inside of him, in that moment. 

His daughter was dead. His son was dead. Charles Xavier was dead. The X-Men were dead.

God was dead. 

(And Magneto would rise up to take his place.)

Amidst his fury emerged almost a feeling of a serenity, and he knelt back down next to the still bodies of his children. “I'm sorry I was never there for you,” he said softly, reaching out to brush the hair from their faces. “I'm sorry. I know that you can't hear me, but if you could… just know that I wish things could have been different. 

“I wish I'd had a chance to show you that I loved you. That I was proud of the people you'd become. But I can't go back and change everything, no matter how much I wish I could.

“All I can promise you is that the humans who did this to you… 

He grinned through his tears, mirthless, merciless. “For what they've done,” he said, fists clenching. “For what this world has done. _For killing my children. **They will all pay the ultimate price.** ”_

The ash fell around him as he stood and walked away, cape sweeping behind him, taking off his helmet and tossing it to the ground. 

He didn't need it anymore. 

(In the ash next to his sister, a tear slipped from the corner of Pietro's deadened eyes.)

* * *

**END.**

* * *

** Ending Notes **

**On the ending:** I usually try to avoid controversial themes, but here I got incest and religion. Go me. 

The incest is canon in the _Ultimate Comics_ universe. Which is a Marvel universe separate from Earth-616, which is the main universe. More on that later. 

Magneto has a tendency to go crazy and think he's God. In either Earth-616 or Ultimates. And he kinda had it in the movies, a little bit, though not as much. 

And of course I _had_ to kill both Wanda and Pietro (or _did_ I kill Pietro??) and make Erik go crazy in one universe, because it happens way too much in all the various Marvel universes for me to not totally rip on it. 

And _of course_ I had to tend this story with a tragic section.

* * *

**On Thomas and William:** Thomas|Tommy and William|Billy are real comic characters; they're spiritual twins and spiritual sons of the Scarlet Witch. There was this whole thing where she warped reality to make her pregnant and give her sons, because she wanted children but she was married to Vision, who's an android and can't reproduce. But they were created from the soul of Mephisto or something, and then they died, and Wanda went crazy, and then the Avengers were going to kill her, so Pietro convinced her to create the House of M, and then the whole No More Mutants thing happened. 

And then later it turns out that her sons, Thomas and William, were reincarnated as the sons of completely different mothers. So they're not blood related, to Wand or to each other, but they look the same except for hair and eye color, and are spiritually related to each other and Wanda. It's confusing.

So I tactically avoided mentioning who Wanda's husband was. Just pair her with whoever you want and then say that that guy was the father of Thomas and William, lol (in my head it's Victor von Doom, though, because Victor is awesome and I totally ship him and Wanda together, but more on that later in the notes).

* * *

**On Weapon XII and Quicksilver as a living weapon:** I'm sure you all know that Weapon X is Wolverine and Weapon XI is Deadpool. In the Marvel comics, Weapon XII was the Huntsman. Which I'm ignoring because Huntsman was not cool. Weapon XIII is Fantomex, and he's (really) cool.

And I've wanted to turn a speedster into a living weapon for a while now. Mostly because superspeed is SO underappreciated as a superpower, and I want people to see what happens when a speedster doesn't hold back, and realize that a speedster could basically take them all out before they even realize what's happening. 

Originally, I'd planned to write the idea with Tommy Shepherd, but I moved on from the Young Avengers fandom before I could get to it. 

So here it is! I finally got to get it out of my head. Originally I was worried about how the idea was worming its way in here—worried that my brain was just doing it because it had been wanting to use that idea for a long time now—but I think that it actually worked out, once all the connections happened.

* * *

**On the Hank/Peter ship:** I'm not quite sure how this pairing happened. It just… happened. And then I was just like “WHUT. EVEN.” But I just rolled with it, like I rolled with all the other unexpected stuff that happened in this story. But I really don't like Hank McCoy in the comics, so it was a revelation to realize how much I like him in the movies. So the addition of that was as much a surprise to me as it was to you. But I just kept seeing Hank when he first met Peter, grinning and saying, “He's fascinating.” And then they bonded over physics.

Hank/Peter is in the universes where Peter got captured by Weapon X, and the universe where Peter, Wanda, and Erik are all part of the X-Men (which is also the Cherik universe), and also one or more of the other universes that I couldn't keep track of. 

Gawd, there must be at _least_ twenty universes mixed up in this story. I don't even know anymore. 

**On the Evan/Peter ship:** Evan Daniels is a character from the _X-Men: Evolution_ TV series. I didn't mean for him to show up. He just kinda did. And then Evan/Peter kinda happened, because that's a fairly common _X-Men: Evolution_ ship, due to their history on the show together. And it just kinda happened. 

Although, to be clear, the universe in this story with Evan/Peter is not the same universe as the Hank/Peter universes. Evan/Peter is in the universe where Peter willingly left the X-Men.

 **On the Wanda/Pietro ship:** Yes, incest, I know. But it's canon from the Ultimate Marvel comics, Earth-1610, so I kinda had to include it a little bit. And because, hey, why the fuck not include an uncomfortable theme in here? 'Cause, like, in the Ultimates comics their relationship was adorable/sweet/possessive/obsessive/protective/overprotective/weird/weirdly-not-weird/taboo/I-totally-don't-know-how-to-feel-about-this. Because it's like "Parachute" by Ingrid Michaelson, aside from the fact that they're siblings, and probably a little more possessive than that. 

I'm not saying that it was a _healthy_ relationship necessarily, but it wasn't a _sick_ relationship. It was just two really powerful and messed-up people being the only thing in the entire world that kept each other happy and sane.

The relationship wasn't abusive _at all_ , up until Wanda died and then "came back," but it wasn't actually Wanda. It was Kang, who was actually Sue Storm from the future, pretending to be Wanda in order to manipulate Pietro. (And of course it totally worked, because Pietro loved Wanda so much that he'd take any abuse from her and do whatever she said.)

Anyways. In this story Wanda/Pietro was in the two universes where Erik and Wanda coerced Peter into joining the Brotherhood, and maybe one or more of the other universes that I cannot keep track of. But basically, if Pietro went by Peter in the section, you can be sure that it was not a Wanda/Pietro universe. Though not all the universes where he goes by Pietro are Wanda/Pietro universes, but in all the Wanda/Pietro universes he goes by Pietro. 

(Just because I included these ships does not mean that I necessarily ship them.)

 **On the Wanda/Victor von Doom ship:** (I definitely do ship this, though.) Wanda and Victor were going to get married in _The Children's Crusade_ , but then shit happened. Basically, it ended with Victor getting his face burned up again and confessing to both the Avengers and X-Men that he was the one who had manipulated Wanda into destroying the Avengers and ridding the world of mutants. 

Magneto and others took that as meaning Wanda was innocent, but Wolverine said, “A man in love will say anything.” Captain America remarked that it didn't sound like love, to him, but I'm going with Wolverine because he has the nose that knows. And also, I really loved the interactions between Wanda and Victor earlier in the comic, and I like to believe that Victor's love for Wanda was genuine because it was so sweet and perfect, and they're both super powerful beings and I love the idea of them being together and kinda helping keep each other in check. 

I imagine the Wanda/Victor ship is in the all the universes that are not Wanda/Pietro.

 **On Wanda's other ships:** The two previous boyfriends I mentioned, Simon and Jonas, are Simon Williams, aka Wonder Man, and Jonas, aka Vision, but as a human rather than an android. Jonas was actually the name of the younger Vision, who was part of the Young Avengers with Wanda's spiritual children, but I used it as the name for the human representation of the older Vision, because that Vision doesn't have any names aside from Vision. Both Simon and Vision had relationships with Wanda in the comics. I don't particularly like either of them (Vision is the one other character I like better in the movies than in the comics). So I didn't have her actually end up with either of them.

I imagine that they both would have reacted with anger, and perhaps fear, when Peter threatened them.

* * *

**On the various ideas for this story:** There was lots of comic inspiration in here, from the Marvel wikia pages for characters as well as some events/dialogue from some specific comics. These comics primarily being _Avengers Origins: Quicksilver & The Scarlet Witch, Wolverine Origin, House of M,_ and _Ultimates_. There were actually some scenes I ripped almost directly out of the _Ultimate_ comics, since I loved them so much and I figured probably not many people reading this have read the comics I stole them from, lol. 

I am obviously ignoring the whole thing about how Pietro and Wanda aren't actually Magneto's children and aren't actually mutants in the Earth-616 universe. 

Also, probably way too many of the sections of this story were inspired by whatever song I was listening to at the time. 

In an interview at Wizard World Sacramento, Evan Peters, the actor who plays Quicksilver in the X-Men movies (and whose name, with the Evan/Peter ship, is now absolutely hilarious) said that he'd like to see his Quicksilver crossover with Ryan Reynold's Deadpool character, because “[t]hey're both cheeky, silly, fun comic book heroes. I think it could be silly and funny and gory and graphic.” He also said he'd like to seet he movies adapt the comics storyline where Quicksilver joins with Magneto to become a bad guy, like Quicksilver did when he was younger in Marvel's classic adventures.

So of course, I had to make those two things happen. (They were honestly both things I'd wanted to do anyway, hearing that Evan wanted that too only solidified it.) 

Also, the moment where Peter mentions stealing people's toothbrushes and sticking them up their asses is something Evan Peters mentioned in the interview as something he'd probably do if he had superspeed.

* * *

**On Quicksilver's characterization:** Quicksilver in the movies has a very different attitude from Quicksilver in the comics. It's actually a bit closer to the attitude of his spiritual nephew Tommy Shepherd. So I was actually a bit more inspired by Tommy than Pietro when writing this Peter, although I did want to keep the close sibling relationship between Wanda and Pietro, which is not something that Tommy has with his spiritual twin, Billy. Though sometimes I was basing Pietro more on his _Ultimates_ self. 

In a lot of these sections, I was actually imagining Pietro from the comics, with his white hair and blue eyes. However, in order to keep some kind of consistency in this crazy mess, I chose to only describe him as his X-Men movieverse self. At least hair- and eye-color-wise. (Though admittedly that tended to be the most description I gave.)

 **On Wanda's characterization:** Sometimes my Wanda is based on the _Ultimates_ version of Wanda. Sometimes she's not, though. I don't know where my characterization for Wanda when she's not based on her _Ultimates_ self comes from. The rest of the time she's not Wanda from any of the comic universes, and she's not Wanda from the cinematic universe, and she's not Wanda from the TV series _X-Men: Evolution_. She's just headcanon Wanda. I just don't know where she comes from. Which kind of makes me nervous, but hopefully she's okay. 

Like Pietro, which Wanda I saw in my head also changed depending on the scene, but I kept her description to her Earth-616 self.

* * *

**On Angel's real name:** In the comics, Angel's real name is Warren Worthington III, and he's an American rich boy. They obviously changed his origin in the movies, so I decided to change his name to go with the changed origin, since they never mentioned what his real name was in the movie.

Since they made him German, I chose a German last name for him. 'Warren' is an English name that means 'guard' or a German name that means 'loyal,' according to the internet, so I kept the first name. Though obviously in German it would be pronounced differently than in English.

However, 'Worthington' is an English habitational name from places in Lancashire and Leicestershire named Worthington; both may have originally been named in Old English as Wurðingtun ‘settlement (Old English tun) associated with Wurð’, but it is also possible that the first element was Old English worðign, a derivative of worð ‘enclosure’. 

So I want a German name for him, but one that nonetheless sounded somewhat similar so as not to completely throw everyone off, so I chose 'Wortmann,' which is a topographic name for someone who lived on a raised, secure site, Middle Low German _wort + man_ ‘man’. 

And I got rid of the 'III' on the end of the name since such numbers are usually indicative of an elevated status, which works for a rich boy with rich parents who own their own industry and are contemporaries of other successful businessmen like Howard Stark, but not so much for a guy who somehow got forced into a fighting ring and probably doesn't have any family any more and likely wasn't very well-off to begin with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **[EDIT 9/25/16:]** The German has been edited. A huge thanks to  Respectable for fixing it!
> 
> **Translations:**
> 
> _Mein Kolibri_ – My hummingbird
> 
>  _Mein Sohn_ \- my son
> 
>  _Es tut mir leid_ \- I'm sorry
> 
>  _Bitte_ \- Please
> 
>  _Du musst überleben_ \- You have to survive
> 
> * * *
> 
> I would love to hear your thoughts on this story! Were all the hours I put into writing this, and all the time you put into reading it, worth it? 
> 
> And I know that this story was probably very confusing, so if you have any questions about anything that happened in this story, please do not be afraid to ask me :)


End file.
